Mythic Age. The only road to Black Iron City—Death Gorge.
A place no bird dared cross. Two sheer black cliffs rose like walls to the sky, and between them ran a goat path barely three meters wide. White mist pooled at the canyon's bottom, never dispersing; from time to time came the distant rumble of something enormous shifting in its sleep.
For normal adventurers, this was a one-way road named despair.
For the five lunatics currently sprinting through it, it looked more like the filming location of an extreme variety show called "Run Until You Die."
"AAAAAAH! WHY IS THE ROCK MOVING?!"
Argo's scream could have shattered glass. He flailed his arms and ran with a gait that had long abandoned dignity. Behind him, a boulder—five meters across—rolled after him at a speed that violated basic physics.
Worse: the boulder had a mouth.
A jagged maw split open across its surface, eager to taste whether "future hero" butt meat was tender.
"That's a Rock Mimic!" Fina shouted, face pinched with exhausted anger. "And an elite one! And stop screaming—your voice will call in more monsters!"
"But it's chasing me!" Argo sobbed over his shoulder. "It's really chasing me! Shirou-bro, help!"
Shirou, running at the very back of the formation, sighed like a man paying interest on a debt.
"I knew this would happen…"
He was still carrying the heavy supply pack. In his free hand, he even had two "ingredients"—a pair of unconscious ancient dodos—knocked out earlier for dinner.
He didn't stop. He didn't even slow.
He just freed one hand and grabbed the air in front of the rolling mimic.
"Trace."
No grand Noble Phantasm. No heroics.
For a monster that lived off gravity and momentum, all he needed was… a small dose of applied physics.
Projection — Grease.
More precisely:
Oil Trap.
PFFFT!
A wide, glossy puddle of pitch-black, magically slick oil burst into existence across the path.
RUMBLE—!
The Rock Mimic couldn't brake in time. It rolled straight onto the grease, friction instantly dropping to zero. Like a bowling ball on ice, it stopped chasing Argo and slid in a perfect, helpless line—right off the cliff.
Its furious howl echoed as it fell into the canyon's misty abyss.
Shirou snapped his fingers.
"Strike. Perfect hit."
Argo collapsed onto his backside, panting like his soul was trying to exit through his mouth.
"S-saved…" he wheezed. "Shirou-bro… was that magic? That's so underhanded—no, so genius!"
"That's called living smart." Shirou hauled him back to his feet. "Don't sit. There's worse ahead."
He glanced forward, eyes narrowing.
"My radar says we've wandered into a nasty instance."
Escaping the rock mimic was only the opening act.
This era's monster density was absurd. No ecosystem balance, no mercy, just a randomized spawn system designed by a sadist.
"I'm starving…" Ona dragged her axe, stomach growling like a war drum. "Shirou, is it not lunch yet? I've swung this thing fifty times. I've burned enough calories to feed a cow."
"I'm hungry too…" Crozzo looked pale, still lugging his portable anvil like a madman. "My mana's nearly empty…"
Shirou took one look at his team of ravenous disasters and conceded.
"Break. Rest. Lunch prep."
Instant revival.
Argo sidled up with a guilty grin, holding a twig like it was evidence.
"Shirou-bro… I found a really tasty-looking egg over there. Like—this big." He made an exaggerated circle with his arms. "Should we… borrow it for extra rations?"
Shirou's Mind's Eye twitched.
In places like this, "egg" meant one of two things:
Premium ingredient.
A mother that would barbecue you alive.
Before Shirou could stop him—
CRACK.
A sound from the brush.
And then a massive Wyvern dropped from above, fury incarnate, and breathed fire straight at the "egg thief."
"WAAAH! DRAGON MOM!" Argo screamed, instantly activating his signature skill: Emergency Retreat. "I'M SORRY! I WAS JUST PASSING BY!"
Shirou sighed and moved like he'd done this a thousand times.
"Trace—Project."
He flicked Kanshou and Bakuya forward, cutting the wyvern's flame stream in half.
"Ona! Main DPS! Crozzo—enchant her axe! Fina—eyes! Argo… you can cheer from the side!"
"HEY!"
Fifteen minutes later, a fragrant Roasted Wyvern Wing sizzled over a campfire.
The egg, for "ecological balance" (and because it wasn't cooked), was returned to the nest.
Argo chewed on a wing bigger than his face, tears of joy and grease pouring down his chin.
"This texture! This heat control!" he moaned. "Shirou-bro, if you open a restaurant someday, I'll be the mascot!"
"I refuse," Shirou said flatly, turning the meat. "That place would go bankrupt in a week."
Fina ate with an elf's restrained elegance, taking small, careful bites. Her eyes never left Shirou.
"Your ability to conjure weapons… and even seasonings… are you really human?" she asked. "Even the old elf courts don't have that kind of authority."
"Just tricks of a counterfeit," Shirou answered, not explaining further.
Explaining "magic circuits" and "heroic records" to mythic-age people was a headache he didn't need.
"Counterfeit…" Argo repeated, oddly quiet.
He set down the bone in his hands and stared at the fire. For once, his voice didn't wobble between boasting and squealing.
"You know, Shirou-bro… I think I'm a counterfeit too."
Everyone looked at him.
The clown.
The loudmouth.
The man who ran first and talked later.
Argo drew his "sword"—a lightning-enchanted wooden blade with no edge to speak of.
"I want to be a hero," he said, face lit by flames. "But I don't have Ona's strength. I don't have Crozzo's craft. I don't have Fina's magic. I've only got my mouth… and this."
He laughed at himself, but it came out brittle.
"When real monsters show up, I run. When real danger comes, I scream. Maybe 'The Argonaut Heroic Tale' is just… 'The Clown's Great Escape.'"
He swallowed.
"Can someone like me… really save the princess? Can someone like me… be called a hero?"
The camp fell quiet.
Even Fina didn't kick him.
A log popped in the fire, throwing sparks.
Shirou set down his tongs and stood.
He looked at Argo—not with mockery, not with pity.
With something closer to recognition.
"Argo," Shirou said calmly, "the number of 'true heroes' in this world is small. Most people are imitating. Struggling. Pretending. Hanging on."
He tapped his own chest.
"I'm counterfeit too. My swords are borrowed. My ideals are borrowed. Even my life… in some ways, is borrowed."
Then he stepped forward and placed his hand over Argo's grip on the wooden sword.
"But a counterfeit doesn't necessarily lose to the real thing."
His voice sharpened like a blade being drawn.
"If you carry the role all the way. If, in the middle of 'acting like a hero,' you actually save even one person—then in that moment, you're real."
He pointed behind them—toward the trail they'd walked.
"Running isn't shameful. Screaming isn't shameful. What matters is this:"
"When the wyvern came, you moved first. You drew it away before Ona could build momentum."
"In the sands earlier, you were the one who tested the ground with your own body so we could avoid the sink."
"Your form is ugly. Your process is ridiculous."
Shirou's eyes softened.
"But you've been in front. Every time."
Argo froze.
Firelight flickered across his painted face.
And for a heartbeat, in Shirou's eyes, Argo saw something he'd never been able to see in himself—
A soul trying its hardest to shine.
"In front…" Argo whispered.
His eyes watered.
Then, as if embarrassed by sincerity, he sucked in his nose and sprang up with a grin so wide it was almost tragic.
"HAHA! Of course! That's me! The man always at the front!"
He punched his chest.
"I am—the tragically misunderstood, absurdly handsome, heroic genius—ARGOOOOO!"
The carefully built atmosphere evaporated instantly.
"Shut up!" Fina snapped, punting him."Don't get cocky!" Ona added, hammering him with a fist."OW OW OW—IS THIS THE LOVE OF MY COMRADES?!" Argo rolled in the dirt, shrieking.
Shirou laughed.
That was Argo.
That was the origin of "heroism" in this era: not perfection, not divinity—just stubborn foolishness that could make people smile and drag a sliver of hope out of mud.
They crossed the gorge and saw it on the horizon.
Black Iron City (Iron Keep).
A fortress of obsidian and steel, walls towering like a cliff, bristling with ballistae and mage towers. A killing intent that made the air feel heavier.
"So what's the plan?" Ona cracked her knuckles. "We chop through the gate?"
"No." Shirou shook his head. "Too slow. Too loud. It calls the whole army."
He pulled out the object they'd prepared:
A dazzling, over-the-top holy sword replica, jeweled with "gems" (glass), shining with "divine light" (illusion plus mana optics).
Pseudo–Caliburn, Bomb Edition.
"We're here to offer tribute," Shirou said, wearing a smile that was polite in the way a guillotine was polite. "We trade this for passage into the capital."
"And if the Black King gets greedy…"
He didn't finish.
Everyone understood.
Fina took a half step away from the sword.
"That's evil."
"It's negotiation."
"So who delivers it?" Crozzo asked. "If you walk in, you'll be executed."
"I'll do it!" Argo raised his hand immediately, then adjusted his feathered clown hat like he was about to walk onto a stage.
"A room full of soldiers? A king? A spotlight?"
He grinned.
"That's my natural habitat."
Shirou stared.
"You know if you slip, you die."
Argo's legs trembled, but his grin held.
"I'm useless at fighting," he admitted. "But lying?"
He puffed out his chest.
"I'm level ninety-nine."
"Halt! Who goes there?!"
Black-armored guards leveled spears at the odd procession.
Argo stepped forward, cleared his throat, and somehow managed to look more arrogant than a king.
"Listen well, mortals!" he declared. "We are envoys from the far East! We bear a treasure that will alter the world's fate—offered to the great Black King!"
He drew the sword.
GOLD LIGHT bloomed, holy and blinding.
The guards' eyes went wide.
"A…神器…?"
"Report at once!" Argo bellowed, pointing the blade at a guard's nose. "Delay this matter and you'll lose your head—and your city gate with it!"
The guards didn't argue.
They ran.
Argo's knees nearly folded as soon as they were out of earshot.
"Th-that was close…"
Shirou steadied him by the shoulder and leaned in.
"Good. Next is the real part. Whatever happens—don't let go of the sword."
"Our pass," Shirou whispered, "and our detonator."
Ten minutes later, the gates opened.
The "Holy Sword Delivery Service" was accepted.
And the clown's heroic tale—ridiculous, trembling, sincere—took its first true step onto a blood-soaked stage.
....
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