Mythic Age — Somewhere in an unknown primeval forest.
Morning sunlight filtered through a dense canopy, scattering dappled light across dew-soaked grass. The air smelled of rich earth… and a mouthwatering aroma of meat so enticing it seemed to awaken something primal in the human appetite.
Gulp.
Argo swallowed hard. Even in sleep his eyes never truly behaved, and now they snapped open at once. Like a cat high on catnip, he launched himself upright and practically rolled toward the source of the scent.
"What is this?! What is this heavenly smell?! Did the gods accidentally spill their breakfast from the sky?!"
He flailed his arms dramatically, bouncing around the figure busying himself by the campfire.
"It's not gods. It's just a passing chef," Emiya Shirou said, holding a huge wooden ladle as he stirred a stone pot he'd somehow acquired. Thick broth churned inside; chunks of boar rose and sank in the rolling stew, mixed with wild greens and mushrooms gathered from the forest. The color looked so appetizing it practically glowed.
"Shirou-bro! You're my second set of parents!" Argo lunged as if to hug Shirou—more likely the pot—only for Shirou to calmly stop him by pressing the ladle handle against his forehead with perfect precision.
"Go wash your face and hands," Shirou said evenly, in the tone of an adult dealing with a misbehaving child. "Or you don't eat."
"Yes, sir!" Argo snapped a salute that was neither proper nor dignified, then sprinted for the nearby stream.
Watching him go, Shirou sighed.
Last night, after confirming the utterly infuriating fact that he'd been thrown into an era before the Age of Gods, Shirou had been forced to accept reality. If he was here, then he was here. He'd always been the type to get dragged into trouble anyway—being stuck in the past just meant he was grinding a different map.
And…
Shirou glanced at his right hand.
In this ancient world—where ambient mana was thick and wild—his dragonbone prosthesis felt more "alive." The concentration of primal mana in the air was absurd; with every breath, his magic circuits greedily drank it in. He still couldn't throw around something like Unlimited Blade Works, but basic projection and reinforcement were fully back online.
"Shirou-bro! I'm clean! I even washed behind my ears!" Argo came barreling back, his face dripping wet. He sat obediently on a rock and held up two crude wooden bowls—also apparently carved by Shirou last night.
"Eat," Shirou said, ladling him a brimming bowl. "Special: Primeval Forest Style Boar Stew. We don't have proper seasoning, but I used spicy berries as a substitute. It should be… acceptable."
Argo took one sip.
His expression froze.
Then two clear streams of tears slid down his cheeks.
"…What?!" Shirou jolted, suddenly alarmed. "Is it poisonous? Do people in this era not tolerate spicy—"
"It's… not poison…" Argo trembled as he set the bowl down, then grabbed Shirou's hand with both of his. "It's too good! This is a miracle! Everything I've eaten in my life compared to this is garbage! No—worse than pig feed! Shirou-bro, you have to join my hero company! Even if you don't fight, you can be our army's head chef! For this bowl of stew, I'll give you half my future kingdom!"
"Why would I want your kingdom… and you don't even have one," Shirou replied, pulling his hand back and eating with maddening composure. "Also, aside from that broken sword, you own nothing. But… since you eat like it's a religious ceremony, fine. Teaming up for now isn't impossible."
"Really?!" Argo practically exploded with joy. He pulled a battered notebook and a charcoal stick from his clothes. "Then I'll write the first chapter of The Tale of Argonaut with bold strokes! 'On a morning ordained by fate, the future great hero Argo met a red-haired sage from another world. The sage used a legendary stew to test the hero (actually bribed him), and the two became sworn brothers of different fathers and mothers—'"
"Stop writing nonsense!" Shirou barked. "Who's a sage? And what kind of 'test' is that?!"
Still, seeing Argo scribble with such deadly seriousness was… oddly funny.
The guy was a loudmouthed clown, sure—but that optimism, bordering on idiocy, was strangely hard to dislike.
After breakfast came the standard "digestive activity."
Which meant…
Training.
"If we're going to travel together, I need to understand your combat level," Shirou said, standing in a clearing with two wooden sticks in hand. "Come at me. Use whatever you think is your best move."
"Heh." Argo wiped his nose and struck a flashy stance. "Don't underestimate me, Shirou-bro! I may not be able to conjure blades like you, but I taught myself 'Royal Swordsmanship'—mostly by watching from a distance! Take this! Ultimate—Argo Spiral Thrust!"
He shouted the name and spun like a top as he charged.
Tap.
Shirou simply shifted half a step and lightly knocked Argo's wrist with a stick.
"Ow—!"
Argo's wooden sword flew away. Momentum carried him straight into the grass.
Face-first.
Shirou stared at the "future great hero" sprawled in the weeds and fell into silence.
He'd expected weak.
But this was… spectacularly weak.
This wasn't "slay the demon king" material—this was "struggle to kill a chicken near the village gate" material. In game terms, this was the kind of starter character whose stats were all set to one.
"Again!" Argo popped up, indignant, snatching the wooden sword. "That was an accident! The terrain was slippery! Now watch—Argo Flash Slash!"
Tap.
This time he was tripped.
"Again! Argo Meteor Strike!"
Tap.
Bonked on the forehead.
Argo collapsed on his back, arms spread, panting. His head was dotted with lumps; his eyes had the vacant look of someone whose soul was trying to escape.
"I… can't… Shirou… Are you a monster? Why can't I even touch your clothes?"
"It's not that I'm strong. It's that you're full of openings," Shirou said, tossing the sticks aside and sitting next to him. "Your movements are too showy. Fighting isn't a performance. You don't need unnecessary spins or shouting."
"And your stance is unstable, your core strength is terrible, and you close your eyes when you swing. Are you trying to land hits by faith alone?"
"But if I don't shout the move name, there's no momentum!" Argo argued with perfect confidence. "A hero always shouts the finisher and turns the tide! That's how it works in stories!"
"That's a storybook," Shirou sighed. "In real life, shouting your move name tells the enemy exactly what you're doing. Also, you'll bite your tongue."
He stared up at the canopy.
Training this idiot into something resembling a fighter would be a marathon.
Still…
Shirou looked at Argo. Even flattened and bruised, the kid's eyes still shone.
His resilience was ridiculous. Shirou had knocked him down repeatedly, and Argo had never truly given up. That cockroach-like persistence might be his only talent—but it was also the one talent that could actually grow into something.
"Fine. Fundamentals can wait," Shirou said, standing and turning toward the deeper forest. "We need to leave. Do you know where the nearest settlement is?"
"Yeah!" Argo sprang up, brushing dirt off his backside. "Half a day north is a place called Ratatoskr. It's a human outpost."
He suddenly turned… suspiciously dramatic.
"But that's not our real goal! We're going deeper—to the royal capital!"
"Royal capital?" Shirou raised an eyebrow.
"Exactly!" Argo pulled out a crumpled bounty notice. On it was a crude drawing of a blonde girl. The art was awful, but the noble air came through anyway. "Behold! The 'princess imprisoned by the demon king'—Princess Ariadne! Rumor says she was taken by a terrifying bull-headed monster and is now locked in the capital's labyrinth, awaiting a hero's rescue!"
"Ariadne…" Shirou paused.
That name… that hair color…
Why did it feel eerily similar to a certain blonde sword-girl whose defining trait was eating fried potato snacks?
An ancestor, maybe?
"If we save the princess, I'll be famous!" Argo began drooling mid-fantasy. "Money! Fame! And maybe even the princess's heart—hehehe…"
"Wake up. It's morning," Shirou said, smacking him on the head. "But fine—if we have a destination, we move. Better than feeding mosquitoes in the forest."
They packed up—meaning Shirou packed up while Argo struck poses nearby—and set off.
On the road, Shirou learned the true meaning of the word chatterbox.
Argo's mouth was a perpetual motion machine. He went from ancient myths to gossip about some widow in a neighboring village. From his "heroic grand strategy" to the dream he'd had last night.
"Shirou-bro, did you know there's a black power sealed inside me—"
"That's mud. You didn't bathe yesterday."
"Shirou-bro, look at that cloud! Doesn't it look like a roaring dragon?"
"That's a rain cloud. Move faster or we'll get soaked."
"Shirou-bro, when I become a great hero, I'll appoint you 'Hero King's Royal Chef.' How about it?"
"Thanks. Could you give me a better title? Like 'hero of justice' or something."
"Pfft—hero of justice? That's so lame! Who uses retro titles like that these days?"
"You have a broken wooden sword and a clown outfit. You're not qualified to judge my naming sense."
Despite the noise, the journey wasn't boring.
Argo's combat power was basically five, but in certain weird areas he was oddly useful: identifying which fruits were poisonous and which mushrooms were edible—albeit through traumatic experience ("I ate that once and had diarrhea for three days"). His sense of terrain was also strangely sharp. He always found the safest—or laziest—shortcuts.
Maybe that was his real skill: survival.
Still, this was the mythic age.
Danger showed up whether you wanted it to or not.
When they passed through a narrow valley, the path ahead was blocked by creatures.
Wolves.
Not normal wolves—each one was as large as a calf. Their fur was iron-gray, their eyes a blood-red gleam.
Ancient Dire Wolves.
Count: roughly twenty.
"Aaaah! Dire wolves!" Argo instantly dove behind Shirou, the motion so practiced it hurt to watch. "We're done! These things make proper armies detour! Shirou-bro, run!"
"We can't," Shirou said calmly, scanning the surroundings.
The pack had already fanned out, encircling them. Ancient beasts like these were smart; they understood hunting formations.
"Twenty-three," Shirou corrected, his eyes narrowing. "Alpha's on the left ridge."
His battlefield sense snapped into place. In this era there was no divine blessing, no levels, no status sheets. Humans faced monsters like this and died.
But Emiya Shirou wasn't "normal human."
He didn't have divine status.
He had something else.
A cheat.
"Argo," Shirou said, hands empty. "Don't run around. Stay within three meters behind me. Unless you want to become wolf food."
"But it's just you!" Argo squeaked, staring at Shirou's empty hands. "And you don't even have a real weapon!"
"Who says I don't?"
Shirou inhaled.
Mana surged through him like a river.
"Trace."
Black-and-white light flashed.
A pair of sleek, cold short blades appeared in his hands.
Kanshou and Bakuya.
"That's… magic?!" Argo's jaw dropped. He forgot to be afraid.
The wolves attacked.
Three leapt at once, jaws gaping for Shirou's throat and limbs.
"Too slow."
Shirou's eyes were ice.
To his enhanced perception, their movements looked almost like slow motion.
Slash—slash—slash.
The twin blades drew perfect arcs. No wasted movement. No flashy showmanship.
Just one instant of passing through.
Blood blossomed.
The three wolves were still in midair when their heads separated from their bodies.
"W-what?!" Argo stared at Shirou standing in a pool of blood, pristine as if he'd never moved. "That… that's not a human. That's a monster wearing human skin!"
The pack didn't retreat. The death only triggered frenzy.
The alpha howled.
The remaining wolves charged at once.
"If you want to die, fine," Shirou said, reversing his grip. "From here on out…"
"It's a one-sided slaughter."
It was violence so clean it almost looked like art.
A red blur moved through the pack like a reaper's dance. Each slash ended a life. Each parry came with bone-cracking impact. The wolves died faster than fear could spread.
Behind him, Argo watched, heart pounding.
This is a hero.
This is the power that protects.
"So cool…" Argo clenched his broken wooden sword, awe burning in his eyes. "I… I want to be like that."
And then—
One wolf, cunning and silent, slipped around Shirou's line.
It pounced at the "weak one" who'd been staring blankly the whole time.
"Watch out!" Shirou was tied up with three wolves in front and couldn't pivot back in time. He tried to throw a projected blade—too far.
Argo saw the jaws coming.
He smelled death.
His body refused to move.
His legs were jelly.
Am I going to die? Like always? Worthless?
No.
No—!
"I'm not satisfied with that!" Argo's mind screamed.
"I'm… I'm going to be a hero!"
"Aaaaaaaah!"
In that split second, Argo found courage he didn't know he had. He didn't close his eyes. He didn't run.
He raised the broken wooden sword and stabbed straight for the wolf's throat.
"Even if I die… I'm taking one of your teeth with me!"
The wood sank into the wolf's throat.
But the wolf's momentum smashed him backward. Claws tore three deep gashes across his chest.
Argo hit the ground hard, pain nearly knocking him unconscious. He still clung to the sword hilt and refused to let go.
The wolf thrashed, choking.
Then it went still.
"I… killed it?" Argo stared at the corpse, disbelieving. "I… can do it too?"
"Well done!" Shirou finished the last enemy and sprinted over. He checked Argo quickly. "Good. No organs hit. Just flesh wounds."
As Shirou wrapped him, he spoke with quiet seriousness.
"That choice you made—when you didn't run and instead attacked…"
"Argo, you have the qualities of a hero."
"Really?!" Argo grabbed Shirou's hand, forgetting pain in an instant. "You think I'm a hero?!"
"Yeah," Shirou said, smiling. "Your technique is terrible. Your posture is ugly. But that courage was real."
"Heh… hehehe…" Argo grinned stupidly, then hissed as the movement pulled at his wounds. "I knew it. I'm a genius."
Shirou glanced at the ruined wooden sword.
"Still, your gear is pathetic," he said bluntly. "If your blade had been even a bit better, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."
He stood, moved into the brush, and found a length of ironwood. Then he took a lightning-tinged magic stone from the alpha's corpse.
"Since you're in my party now," Shirou said, expression resigned like someone accepting a lifelong burden, "I'll upgrade your equipment."
He ran his fingers over the wood and stone.
"Trace Analysis."
A simple design formed in his mind: beginner-friendly, light, and… with a little flair.
Because this idiot loved flair.
"All right," Shirou said. "You're up."
Projection.
A wooden sword formed in his hand. The magic stone was set into the hilt, and faint golden arcs crawled along engraved channels down the blade.
A plain ironwood sword—
Now humming with electricity.
Shirou tossed it to Argo.
"Here. A lightning-imbued wooden sword. Not a holy relic, but it's a lot better than your previous stick. Swing with force and it releases a current that can numb enemies."
He paused, then added dryly:
"It suits your… hit-and-run lifestyle."
"Waaaaah!" Argo held it like it was the world's greatest treasure, eyes bulging as the tingling sensation ran up his fingers. "A magic sword?! This is a legendary magic sword!"
He stared at Shirou like he'd just met a god.
"You just… made it casually! Shirou-bro, what are you?! Are you sure you're human?! Did a forging god come down to experience life?!"
"It's basic enchantment," Shirou waved him off. "Your wound's handled. Your equipment's updated. Can you walk?"
"Of course!" Argo sprang up, brandishing the sparking sword and striking a heroic pose. "I feel overflowing power! Even if the demon king shows up, I'll shock him into dancing!"
"Then we go," Shirou said, looking north.
Between distant mountains, a pale structure—white walls—could be seen faintly.
Ratatoskr.
And beyond that, the road to the capital.
"Our journey," Shirou murmured, "is only just beginning."
Not long after they left, shadows moved in the forest.
A squad of soldiers in well-made armor stepped into the clearing. They stared at the pile of dire wolf corpses—especially the alpha, slain with a single lethal cut.
"One strike," the lead knight said grimly. "And the wound is clean—cut by something impossibly sharp. That edge…"
He frowned.
"This isn't damage a weapon from this era should produce."
"Captain, there's another kill," a soldier reported, pointing to the wolf Argo had stabbed. "This one was pierced by a wooden sword. So there was a second person."
"Red hair… twin blades…" The captain pulled out a parchment bearing a crude sketch. "The astrologers prophesied a 'red star from another world' would descend and change fate."
"…Is that him?"
He snapped his hand forward.
"Pursue. Do not let him reach the capital. The princess's 'wedding'…"
His voice turned cold.
"…the sacrifice, cannot be interrupted."
"Yes, sir!"
The soldiers vanished into the trees, chasing the trail Shirou and Argo had left behind.
Far ahead, unaware of the net tightening around them, the two travelers walked under the lowering sun.
"Hey, Shirou-bro," Argo said, grinning. "This sword doesn't have a name yet. Since you made it, you should name it."
Shirou thought for a moment. "How about… Thunderclap?"
"Too lame!" Argo rejected instantly. "It should be called—Wrath of Zeus: Super Ultimate Spiral Flash Argonaut Greatsword!"
"That's too long! Your tongue will tie itself in knots!"
"Then I'll call it 'Lil' Flash.'"
"…Do whatever you want," Shirou sighed.
Their silhouettes stretched long across the grass.
The road ahead was unknown. The danger was real.
But as long as there was a sword, a companion, and that stubborn, foolish courage that refused to go out…
There would be nothing they couldn't cross.
....
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