The storm over the wilderness finally subsided.
That crimson pillar—one that had split the heavens, carved open space itself, and made even gods shudder—faded into the air. In its wake remained a canyon stretching for kilometers, bottomless to the eye, and lingering mana residue that crackled like dying lightning.
"Cough… kh—cough…"
Ottar stood at the canyon's edge. Orario's strongest king looked "ruined" in the most literal sense. The so-called absolute defense of the Over-Black Armor had been pulverized into nothing. His arms were flayed and bloody.
And yet he still stood.
Like a monument that refused to fall.
"The flag… is gone." Ottar turned toward the boy collapsed in the distance. His voice carried a note of something complicated—neither anger nor joy.
"By the rules…" he said, "you win."
The Loki Familia side erupted into earthshaking cheers. Finn exhaled so hard it was like his lungs had been clenched for an hour. Ais—forgetting everything else—charged toward the figure lying in a pool of blood.
But the instant her fingertips were about to touch Shirou—
Bzzzt… bzzzt…
A strange electrical noise rippled through the air.
It wasn't a damaged magic tool. It felt… more fundamental.
Like the world itself throwing an error.
WARNING: High-dimensional spatial fault detected.WARNING: Spacetime coordinate deviation caused by "Sword of Rupture" projection.WARNING: "World Gate" passive trigger detected. Initiating emergency correction (BugFix).
"A—Emiya?!"
Ais froze in horror as Shirou's body began to turn translucent—like a hologram losing signal.
"…What is this?" Shirou cracked his eyes open, staring at his vanished right hand—then at his torso as it started to pixelate into drifting light. He tried to laugh and nearly choked on blood. "Hey, come on… don't tell me I'm getting banned after winning."
"Shirou!"
Ais threw herself forward.
Her hands passed through him.
No matter how she clawed, she grabbed only empty air.
"Don't worry, Ais." Shirou looked at her—at the tears and panic he'd never seen on that usually expressionless face—and managed a small smile. "Looks like I've got a… slightly long business trip."
"No. I won't let you go!" Ais shouted, breaking apart in a way she never had before.
"I'll come back." His voice grew thinner, lighter, dissolving. His body broke into countless points of light. "No matter where I am… as long as there are 'swords'… I can—"
The words never finished.
Light flared.
And Emiya Shirou disappeared, as if he had never existed.
All that remained was a cratered battlefield, a sword princess collapsed on her knees in grief, and an entire audience—both armies and spectators alike—staring in collective disbelief.
…
"Where… am I?"
Shirou felt like he'd been stuffed into a spinning drum, then tossed into a blender for good measure. The vertigo made him want to vomit, but his stomach was empty.
He forced himself upright.
He was lying in a narrow, damp alley. The sky above was a dull gray. The air stank of blood and dust—so thick it felt like it coated his tongue.
This smell…
It was worse than when he'd first arrived in Orario. A hundred times worse.
"…Did I get isekai'd again?" He pressed a hand to his head, checking his condition.
Miraculously, the "transparent" state was gone. He was still weak—horribly weak—but he was solid.
His right hand was wrapped in bandages, as if the world had taped over the damage in concept rather than flesh. The pain remained. The injury remained.
But the hand existed.
"…Is this still Orario?"
He stepped out of the alley and looked down the street.
The white stone road he remembered had become cracked and uneven. Scars of battle ran across the city like old burns. The Babel Tower plaza—once bustling—looked hollow and tense. People hurried past with guarded eyes, shoulders hunched, as if expecting violence at any second.
And the adventurers' equipment—
It looked… older. More old-fashioned. Less refined.
"Hey! Redhead!"
A harsh voice snapped behind him.
A group of men in black robes and masks stepped out to surround him. Their tone was all swagger and predatory certainty.
"Don't recognize you. What Familia you from? That gear looks nice. How about lending it to us, brother?"
Evils—Dark Faction.
Shirou's gaze sharpened.
In broad daylight? They're this bold? Are the Guild's enforcers asleep?
"Get lost," he said flatly.
"Hah? Big mouth." The leader's grin curled as he drew a dagger. "Looks like some newbie doesn't know the rules. Teach him!"
Shirou sighed. He didn't have the mana for theatrics. He didn't even have the patience.
He bent, picked up an abandoned iron rod from the ground, and rolled it once in his palm.
"Reinforcement."
One minute later, several "works of street performance art" lay on the ground, groaning.
Shirou planted a boot on the leader's chest and looked down with a polite, frightening calm.
"Talk," he said. "What year is it? Where am I? And why are you rats walking around robbing people in the open?"
"Cough—!" The masked man wheezed, eyes wide with terror. "Y-you're a monster…! It's… it's the Age of the Gods—wait, what do you mean what year?!"
After a little more "physical communication," Shirou finally got his answer.
This was Orario.
But it was Orario…
Seven years ago.
The era later called the Dark Age—a time of despair.
Zeus Familia and Hera Familia had recently been wiped out in the Black Dragon catastrophe. Orario had lost its greatest pillars of order. The Evils rose like rot, turning the city into a slaughterhouse.
Astraea Familia was still active—which meant Ryuu's comrades were still alive.
And the names that hung over the city like an executioner's shadow—
"Silence" Alfia and "Gluttony" Zard.
Shirou pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You've got to be kidding me…"
Not just spatial displacement—
Time displacement.
"This isn't a 'detour.' This is a hardcore checkpoint restart."
And worse: in this era, he was a complete nonperson. No Familia. No registration. No money he could safely spend—currency designs differed in subtle ways. Even a loaf of bread could get him flagged.
His stomach growled.
Even an "almost-Heroic Spirit" needed to eat.
"…First priority: food." Shirou tossed the black-robed leader aside and wandered onward.
Before he realized it, he'd reached the outskirts near a derelict church. The place looked like a horror movie set—overgrown weeds, broken stone, silence too thick.
"Hm?"
Mind's Eye caught something.
Not food.
Something… high-grade.
A presence—faint, but unnervingly "delicious" in terms of purity.
Shirou followed it to the church's back garden.
A woman stood there beside a withered flowerbed, watching a single small blossom stubbornly holding on in the ruins.
She wore a plain gray dress—expensive fabric, understated cut. Her hair was ash-gray, like the remnants of something burned.
But her eyes were what seized him:
One green. One gray.
Heterochromia.
Even from behind, she radiated loneliness so sharp it chilled the air—along with a pressure that made Ottar feel like a warm-up drill.
Shirou opened his mouth, intending to ask for directions.
"Quiet."
She didn't turn.
Her voice was soft and cold—like snow falling on bare skin.
"Don't wake it," she said, indicating the little flower.
Shirou blinked.
This woman felt like the kind of person who could delete him with a glance—and she was protecting a flower.
"…Sorry. I didn't mean to intrude." He scratched his head. "I'm just passing through. Also… do you know anywhere I can get a meal? I'm lost, and I'm broke."
She paused.
Then she finally turned.
Those mismatched eyes slid over him like he was a speck of dust caught in a beam of light.
"Lost?" A faint curve touched her mouth—more mockery than humor. "In this hell, everyone is lost."
Her gaze swept him—red hair, strange clothing, the bandaged right hand, and the purity of his soul's glow despite how depleted he was.
"…Interesting," she murmured. "You're practically dying, and you're worried about being hungry."
She tossed something casually.
Shirou caught it by reflex.
An apple—bright red, shockingly fresh.
"Eat," she said flatly. "Then leave. Don't die in front of me. It's irritating."
"…Thanks." Shirou wiped it on his sleeve and bit in. Sweet. Almost unreal.
Social instinct kicked in on autopilot—possibly a symptom of having survived too many disasters.
"I'm Emiya Shirou," he said around a bite. "A… blacksmith, basically. And you are?"
She was silent for a moment, as if weighing whether an ant deserved a name.
At last, she turned back to the flower.
"Alfia."
"—Ghk!"
Shirou nearly choked to death on the apple.
Alfia.
The legendary "Silence."
A top executive of Hera Familia.
A monster among monsters—someone whose "talent" itself was a concept, said to be able to suppress even Level 7, someone who could fight a Floor Boss alone.
And—
Bell's aunt.
(Though in this timeline, Bell hadn't even entered the stage yet.)
"…Are you alright?" Alfia frowned, looking at him with the expression reserved for a particularly foolish stray animal.
"I'm—fine. Really." Shirou pounded his chest, his mind in chaos.
So this was his luck.
He got forcibly time-warped, and his first meaningful encounter was basically the Dark Age's final boss—before the boss even fully "turned."
"…Miss Alfia," he asked carefully, "what are you doing here?"
"Waiting," she said, tone unchanged. "For an equally hopeless idiot."
Zard.
Then she turned her head slightly, those mismatched eyes locking onto Shirou as if pinning him to the wall.
"And…" she said, voice quiet but razor-sharp, "your body is hiding many swords."
Shirou's blood ran cold.
Seen through. With one glance.
"And your mana flow," Alfia continued, narrowing her eyes, "is strange. Not like someone from this era."
Her gaze sharpened into something predatory—like a hunter finally spotting the outline of prey.
"Don't tell me…"
"…you came from the 'future.'"
Shirou's skin prickled with sweat.
Is her intuition a cheat code?!
He forced a weak smile.
"…If I say I'm just passing by, would you believe me?"
"No."
Alfia lifted a hand.
The ambient mana congealed.
Invisible wind blades formed around her, silent and lethal.
"Since you ate my apple…"
"…keep me entertained."
"As payment, if you survive…"
"I'll buy you a proper meal."
The wind blades surged.
"Wait! I'm still injured!"
Shirou yelped and snatched up a broken iron sword from the roadside, forced into motion.
"Trace!"
Thus began Emiya Shirou's first day in the Dark Age—
A "pre-dinner workout," administered by the strongest mage of legend, Bell's aunt, purely to kill time.
In this era of despair—
A red-haired swordsman and an ash-gray witch.
Their fates collided in the most absurd way imaginable.
....
My Patreon : patreon/RuneA
If you want to read the novel in advance, you can subscribe for early access. I also have many more novels in my collection that you might be interested in
I upload ten novels a day, with 3 to 4 chapters per title depending on the length. If you're following a particular series, please wait your turn a little
If there's a particular novel you're enjoying on Patron, please give it a 'like' so I know to focus on it