For Loki Familia's headquarters—Twilight Manor—this morning had the unmistakable vibe of those Japanese light novels that open with:
"Even if the world is ending, breakfast still comes first."
"Lord Emiya! Please, for the love of everything, do not move! Riveria-sama said your right hand is currently in a 'Schrödinger's corporeal state'—if you put even a little force into it, it could turn into a puddle of mana dust!"
Inside the infirmary, Liliruca Arde stood in front of the door with her arms spread wide like a hen guarding her chicks, glaring at the red-haired boy who had already changed clothes and was clearly attempting to sneak off toward the kitchen.
"Lili, calm down." Shirou Emiya raised his left hand in surrender.
As for his right…
It had become dreamlike—half-transparent, as if someone had turned down the opacity of reality itself. The arm was still attached to his shoulder, but when Shirou tried to pick up a real water cup, his fingers simply passed through the glass, scattering fine golden motes into the air.
That was the price of projecting a pseudo-version of Ea and forcing even a partial release.
In a world governed by divine blessings, a taboo armament that exceeded "the world's logic" had quite literally cracked the "human vessel" known as Shirou Emiya from the inside.
"I just want to make some porridge," Shirou said, putting on that gentle smile that could probably disarm hostile Familias if used with intent. "Riveria's alchemy medicine works, but the taste is… a crime. Everyone's exhausted after the expedition. If we don't refill carbs, morale will collapse."
"No! Absolutely not!" Lili didn't budge. If anything, she looked even more determined—she was already digging through her bag and producing a rope as if she'd planned for this exact moment. "Your 'overbearing mother' attribute is now a direct threat to your life! Please save the whole 'even with one hand missing I will still cook' obsession for when you're Level Ten!"
"…Level Ten isn't even a real—"
"Lord Emiya…" A timid voice slipped out from the shadows.
Sanjouno Haruhime stepped forward, wearing a pristine white shrine maiden outfit. Her golden fox tail drooped listlessly behind her.
"I… I may be clumsy," she said, voice trembling, "but I can help wash vegetables. Please… please take care of yourself."
"See? Even Haruhime-san says so!" Lili piled on immediately, as if delivering a coordinated strike.
Shirou, now caught in the combined pressure of a support member and a fox-eared maiden, was just about to deploy his ultimate technique—Prostration—to negotiate kitchen access when—
Click.
The infirmary window opened.
A golden afterimage dropped in with the cold morning breeze, landing silently at the bedside.
"Aiz?" Shirou blinked.
Aiz Wallenstein, the Sword Princess who could cleave a floor boss in half, was wearing a light, casual dress—and hugging a strangely shaped pillow that glowed faintly like moonlight.
"Training," Aiz declared, as if that explained everything. The little ahoge on her head bobbed once, settling into the frequency of absolute stubbornness.
"Aiz-san, Lord Emiya can barely keep his hand from evaporating! What training are you talking about?!" Lili wailed.
Aiz ignored her completely. She walked up, stared at Shirou's translucent right hand for three seconds, and then did something that made the entire room—along with the unseen narrator—freeze in shock.
She reached out.
Her fingertips brushed toward the golden haze.
They should've passed through.
Instead, at the moment of contact, the air rippled.
Aiz's mana—Ariel, the flow of wind—resonated with the lingering "moon deity" imprint inside Shirou's arm, producing something like… tactile reality.
"…I can grab it," Aiz said quietly, eyes widening with the delight of someone discovering a new continent. "The mana flow is warm. Like… the moon."
"Aiz, that's my blessing leaking out—" Shirou's face heated up in an instant.
"So. Special training." Aiz closed her hand around his translucent right hand—an intensely strange sensation, like gripping a warm cloud. "Empty ground. I teach you… how to swing a sword with your soul."
Lili and Haruhime stared, speechless.
Somewhere in the universe, someone screamed:
Is this Sword Princess's flirting style supposed to be this hardcore?!
In the end, Shirou didn't escape "special training."
The location simply changed from the practice grounds to the manor's back garden, a peaceful place wrapped in flowers and sunlight.
Up on the second-floor balcony, Loki leaned against the railing with a jug of her special fruit liquor, grinning wickedly as she watched below.
"Riveria, you really aren't going to stop this?" Loki teased. "From here, it looks like they're holding hands and taking a romantic stroll. Feels like I'm watching some kind of love anime called My Transparent Boyfriend Is a Hero."
"Let him be," Riveria Ljos Alf replied calmly, lowering her grimoire. Her emerald gaze held an academic depth. "Shirou's right hand is no longer ordinary flesh. It's a concept—partially assimilated by 'mystery.' If it isn't reshaped through mana-guided reconstruction at this stage, he may be stuck as a one-handed chef for life."
She glanced down at Aiz.
"Aiz's wind is the best catalyst."
"Tch. I thought you'd be jealous, Mama Riveria," Loki said with a laugh.
"I am conducting scholarly observation," Riveria said smoothly, flipping a page—though the hand holding her quill tightened just slightly. "However… Freya's movements are becoming more blatant."
At the name, Loki's smile vanished.
A cold red glint slid across her eyes.
"Yeah… that horny mother cat. I heard she's been locking Ottar in the basement and running 'red-soul' special simulation battles every day. It pisses me off—she's putting her paws on my kid."
"Which is why Shirou must complete his 'growth' quickly," Riveria said, looking toward the distant dungeon entrance. "Not merely Level Four. He needs a fulcrum—something that can truly support his concept of 'infinite.'"
"Hah… ha…" Shirou stopped, breathing out. After prolonged guidance, his translucent right hand radiated heat like a brand.
"How is it?" Aiz asked, concern slipping into her voice.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she produced a cheese croquette from a basket and shoved it into Shirou's mouth.
The smoothness of the feeding motion suggested she'd been grinding this "skill proficiency" during his recovery with malicious efficiency.
"Mmm… it's fine," Shirou managed, chewing. "The 'peeling away' sensation is weaker. Aiz—thank you. Your mana is… pure."
Aiz didn't respond immediately. She stared at his half-real hand, then lifted her eyes.
"Shirou… the sword you used that night. It was sad."
Shirou's movement stilled.
During the Great Strife, he had projected an imitation of Ea. The Star that split the world—also the star of destruction. That loneliness, that proud grief standing above all things…
Aiz had felt it.
"That wasn't my sword," Shirou said softly. "It was something borrowed from the wreckage of memory… a truth belonging to the oldest king. I can't touch even a ten-thousandth of it."
Aiz tilted her head. The ahoge rotated once in confusion.
"Then… what's your sword?"
"Besides the black-and-white pair. The sword you want—what is it like?"
Shirou fell silent.
In his inner world, a crimson wasteland stretched to the horizon—countless blades embedded in the earth like graves.
But most of those were copies. Records. Shadows.
Here in Orario, he had lived through the Great Strife, the moon deity's farewell, the bonds of comrades who should've died but didn't.
And now those experiences burned like metal ready to be forged.
"I want to make a sword…" Shirou raised his translucent right hand and closed his fingers on empty air.
"A sword that can cut 'fate.'"
"Not to destroy. Not to conquer."
"But to end tragedy before it happens—so that even if a god plays a cruel prank, I can cut it in half with one strike."
At that instant, his mana circuits resonated.
The moon-god blessing on his back and the Unlimited Blade Works within his soul reacted—chemistry, not magic.
Within the golden motes of his translucent arm, a dark crimson vein surfaced—like molten rock flowing under glass.
Aiz's eyes widened.
"That is—"
"…The concept," Shirou whispered, breath catching. "The concept of the Sword of the End."
And in that moment, he understood.
To repair this hand—to stabilize his Level—to truly advance—
He didn't need some external miracle material.
He needed a single thing:
To smelt everything he carried from two worlds into one definitive answer.
A single, unshakable—
True Name.
A crisp bell-like sound cut through the garden's quiet.
A blue mana messenger bird fluttered down onto a stone table.
Shirou recognized it immediately.
Hermes Familia's specialty.
Which meant it was usually accompanied by trouble and even bigger trouble.
He opened the letter with his left hand.
The handwriting was bold, flamboyant, and far too pleased with itself:
"Yo, future great hero! Want to know how to turn that 'ghost hand' back into something real? Want to know what the Moon's final 'inheritance' is—and which dungeon floor it's hiding on?Tonight, 8 PM. West Main Street. Hostess of Fertility.Also, Syr says she made a new 'special purple pie' and insists you taste it by name.—Your most faithful ally, Hermes."
Shirou's mouth twitched.
Syr's "purple pie" wasn't food.
It was an assassination attempt with a cute presentation.
"…Hermes is up to something," Aiz said, reading over his shoulder. Her eyes went cold. "Don't go. Syr… dangerous."
"But he mentioned a method to restore my hand," Shirou hesitated.
"I'm going," Aiz declared immediately. "Protect. Also… pie."
She paused.
"I will eat it for you."
"No! Absolutely not!" Shirou's soul tried to flee again. "That pie is forbidden even for Level Six!"
And just like that, the peaceful recovery plan was once again dragged off course by a man in a winged hat.
The tavern was as lively as ever: dwarves drinking themselves into legends, catgirls weaving through tables like dancers, and Miach—no, Mama Mia—roaring from the kitchen like a war god of hospitality.
The moment Shirou and Aiz stepped inside, the room went quiet for exactly one second.
The "topic person" effect.
Then the noise returned, slightly louder, as if to pretend nothing happened.
"Oh-ho! Look who's here!" Hermes waved from a shadowy corner booth. "Our 'god-slaying hero' and his 'escort lady'!"
Next to him, Asfi Al Andromeda drank water with the expression of someone who desperately wanted to disown her own deity.
"Hermes," Shirou said, sitting down without ceremony, "get to the point. What's wrong with my right hand?"
Aiz sat beside him like a guardian statue, scanning the entire tavern as if expecting an ambush from pie-related threats.
"Don't be hasty. First—food." Hermes clapped.
In the next moment, a girl in a gray maid outfit approached, setting down a plate radiating an ominous purple aura.
Syr Flova.
She smiled—sweet, unfathomable, and far too deep.
"You've waited, Emiya-san. And… Wallenstein-san."
Her gray eyes lingered briefly on Shirou's translucent hand, a flicker of something like pain crossing her gaze—whether real or acted was impossible to say.
"This is my special 'Soul Repair Pie.' The appearance is… unique, but the ingredients took quite some effort to obtain."
Shirou stared at the purple pie.
It… moved.
His Mind's Eye screamed a full-body red alert labeled LETHAL DOSE.
"Syr-san, thank you, but I—"
"I eat," Aiz said calmly.
Before the pie could "react," she scooped an enormous bite and put it in her mouth.
"AIZ—!!!" Shirou shouted.
Three seconds later, the Sword Princess—Orario's strongest swordswoman—froze solid.
Her complexion went from pale… to green… to violet.
Her ahoge, once proudly upright, drooped like a defeated eggplant.
"Very… unique," Aiz said with extraordinary willpower, her eyes already drifting into the void. "I… saw… the dark side… of the moon…"
Hermes wheezed with laughter.
"I told you! Emiya-kun, your love life makes me so jealous I want to die!"
Shirou's face was pure despair.
Hermes finally produced an ancient-looking parchment and tapped it with a finger.
"Alright, serious talk. Do you know why your hand can't recover? Riveria's a genius, sure, but she doesn't understand the primordial fire. When you projected that forbidden sword, your right hand was forced into friction with this world's 'stellar will.'"
He leaned closer, voice low.
"Simply put: the Dungeon is rejecting you."
Hermes pointed to a marked coordinate on the parchment:
Dungeon Floor 60 — "The Void Abyss."
"That's the deepest known point Orario can currently confirm—the place closest to the Dungeon's heart. The Moon's final power didn't disappear. The Dungeon's instinct 'reclaimed' it… and stored it there."
"If you want your hand back—if you want to forge that sword you're envisioning—you have to go there."
"Go. And take back the stolen miracle with your own hands."
Shirou's fist tightened.
Floor 60.
A taboo zone that even Loki Familia at full strength hadn't fully conquered.
"Why tell me this, Hermes?" Shirou stared at him. "What are you plotting?"
Hermes grinned, then his eyes sharpened into something rare—seriousness.
"Because I received a message from an old friend. He said… if it's you, you might be able to solve the mystery that's haunted Orario for a thousand years."
He lowered his voice further.
"The Great Hole."
"And also—Freya has started moving. She plans to use her last trump card in the next major expedition."
"If you don't want to run into a 'wedding-snatch army' led by a Level Seven on Floor 60…"
"…you'd better start preparing now."
Shirou fell silent.
Freya's love wasn't affection.
It was ownership.
And Ottar's fists were a natural disaster given human form.
"I understand," Shirou said at last, standing up and lifting Aiz—who was now hovering at the edge of consciousness—from her seat.
"I'll go to Floor 60."
"Not just for this hand."
He looked toward Babel Tower, lights burning like an unblinking eye.
"I'll tell that goddess myself…"
"My soul belongs to no one."
"Not even a god gets to forge my future."
Syr stood nearby, listening quietly.
Her lips curved into a beautiful arc.
"Is that so…?"
"Then I'll be watching," she murmured.
That night, Shirou carried a half-unconscious Aiz through Orario's moonlit streets.
The translucent right hand glittered under the light, brilliant and fragile.
A new chapter had already opened.
Target: the heart of the earth.Enemy: the strongest Familias… and the world's true nature.
Somewhere in the dark, an irritated sneeze echoed.
Allen Fromel paused while wiping his spear.
"Tch. That red-haired brat still alive?"
He clicked his tongue.
"Inform everyone. Prepare to enter Floor 60. The goddess's wedding preparations can't afford mistakes."
In the shadows, countless golden eyes opened—slowly, silently.
A call from the War Game's original hunting ground.
"What?! You're going to Floor 60?!" Loki's shriek blasted through the manor. "Emiya! Did Syr's pie poison your brain?! That place is where even Zeus and Hera came up bleeding!"
"Loki," Shirou said calmly. He was already dressed in newly fitted leather armor, the reforged Otherworldly Kanshou at his waist. His right hand was still translucent, but his presence felt steadier than ever. "This is necessary."
"And I'm not going alone."
He looked into the hall.
Finn polishing his spear.
Gareth adjusting his tower shield.
Riveria charging grimoires.
Tiona and Tione loudly betting on who would kill Floor 60's ruler first.
Lili and Haruhime, terrified but carrying supply packs bigger than their bodies.
And Aiz, recovered enough to quietly sharpen Desperate—her sword—eyes focused like a silent promise.
"Loki Familia's expedition team," Finn said, lifting his head with the smile that made heroes follow him into hell.
"Objective: unexplored territory."
"Mission: retrieve our cook's missing parts."
....
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