Chapter 132: A Terrifying Presence
Zōken Matou's original name was Makiri Zolgen. He had not been Japanese five hundred years ago — but he had since acquired the papers, the name, and a perfectly ordinary family registry listing him as Shinji Matou's grandfather.
In practice, he was the founding head of the Matou lineage.
A magus who had lived five hundred years. His abilities were... passable.
Whether it was the weight of his age finally catching up with him, or simply a matter of when he'd entered the story —
In the Fate world, in what Ryū called the Type-Moon world, Zōken Matou barely registered on the power scale. Among magi he was perhaps middling. Against a Heroic Spirit he might — might — hold even against the weakest of them.
What exactly he'd been doing with five hundred years was anyone's guess.
Possibly the consequence of abandoning his original body.
Sakura's suffering in the original story was at least half Zōken's doing. That much was not in dispute.
Standing before the pit sunk into the floor of his basement — a writhing, crawling mass of insects — Zōken let a thin smile settle on his face.
"Still need to go through those pointless rituals first. Inconvenient. But a few months is manageable." His voice was quiet, dry. "In a few months... Sakura Tohsaka will become Sakura Matou."
"Then I'll use the worms to reshape her. Condition her body. Attune her to the Matou's craft. She'll be ready for the Holy Grail War." He clicked his tongue softly. "What a disappointment — every last one of my descendants, worthless. If any of them had even the faintest talent, I wouldn't need to go looking outside the family."
The irritation was familiar and old. If his bloodline had produced even one heir worth the name, none of this would be necessary. Still — things were moving smoothly. No surprises so far.
Then, for no reason he could identify, something shifted.
An unease settled over Zōken.
He had lived for centuries. He had learned to trust that feeling.
Every time it had appeared before, something had followed.
He stood very still, frowning deeply. His current body was assembled from worms — destroy it, and it didn't matter. Not as long as the brain worm survived. He was not the kind of being who could be killed by attacking his flesh.
But what, exactly, was setting off this warning?
The last time he'd felt something like this, it had been before an earthquake.
He waited.
The basement air was cold and close, the way it always was. The rustling of the insects was the only sound.
Then it hit him.
A presence — colossal, overwhelming, crashing over him like a wave against a cliff face.
It was as if something had swung a hammer directly into his skull.
His awareness blurred at the edges. His thoughts scattered. The air turned heavy all at once, pressing down from every direction, and the chill of the basement was swept away entirely by the oppressive weight of something vast and dominant — something that made every instinct Zōken had accumulated over five centuries snap to attention.
The dust and grit on the floor shivered.
And without any logical reason he could name, deep in whatever remained of his chest — Zōken felt awe.
"No — no, that's wrong. Get a grip. Stay focused."
He caught himself. Forced clarity back into his mind with visible effort.
His expression had gone ugly.
He didn't know where it had come from. He didn't know who it belonged to. But he knew one thing now, with certainty:
He was being attacked.
"That premonition was real. And this presence — how can any living thing project something like this? If the presence alone is this overwhelming, then the person behind it must be—"
He looked down. The fine gravel and dust at his feet were trembling continuously.
He had lived five hundred years and he was afraid.
He hadn't even seen his attacker. Didn't know what they looked like. Didn't know if they were even human.
And he was already afraid.
"Wait — the worms—"
Something caught his attention. He turned sharply toward the worm pit he had spent decades cultivating, and found it silent.
Every last one of them — fat, vigorous creatures that had been crawling over each other moments ago — lay completely still.
He couldn't tell if they were dead or merely stunned. If stunned, recoverable. If dead —
How. How does a presence alone affect creatures with no capacity for fear?
What is that thing—
A sound like the world cracking open.
The estate's bounded field.
Shattered.
Zōken's expression convulsed. That was impossible. The bounded field had taken years to establish and layer. And from the moment that presence had erupted to this —
Less than twenty seconds had passed.
Another impact, deeper and heavier than the first. The entire manor shuddered. Dust and grit rained from the ceiling, and thin cracks began spreading outward across the walls in all directions. Zōken stumbled, nearly pitching forward into his own worm pit, and caught himself with his cane.
He straightened, looked up at the fractures threading across the ceiling above him.
He could feel it — someone was striking the building directly. From the outside.
He still didn't know who.
The presence was inexplicable enough. But the bounded field — gone, in seconds —
"Could it be the Mage's Association? No — even they couldn't tear through a bounded field that quickly. The military? No, that makes even less sense. Why would the state ever intervene in—"
He abandoned the speculation and moved for the stairs.
Getting out of the basement was the immediate priority. If the structure above came down —
That would be a problem he could not simply respawn from.
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