C11: Real Event

It shifts its gaze down to examine me with a curious yet unsettling demeanor—its eyes holding naught but a boundless hatred for all that exists. Curiously, Angra Mainyu does not appear to possess sentience, instead all of its actions seem driven by a singular, instinctive desire for destruction.

Violently, a tentacle of the Daemon rises, and with alarming speed, it lashes out towards me, a motion that I reckon could easily smack the soul out of my body. I dodge to the side as the tentacle crashes into the ground, fear coursing through my veins at the sudden assault as I roll sideway—Dark Soul's style.

It is the same fear that ancient men must have felt facing the wrath of unstoppable natural disasters;

A profound and bottomless helplessness that would deter even the bravest of Humanity;

Despair against entities the majority can never hope to comprehend, let alone overcome.

'I can!'

I remind myself, gripping my spear firmly and brandishing it against the new threat.

My Mystic Code is far more than just a sturdy stick with a sword attached to the end—it is a weapon with two Enchantments.

[Astral Form] allows me to materialize and dematerialize it at will, enabling me to carry the spear wherever I go without having to worry about the troublesome law enforcement. It is quite simple of an Enchantment…

The second, [Tyche's Favor], is named after the minor Greek Goddess of Randomness and Chances, whose breath will infuse my battles with excitement.

Whoever is wounded by my spear will suffer a specific Debuff.

The catch is—because there's always a catch—there's also a 15% chance they will receive a Buff instead.

Furthermore, I can only use this ability on a person once, afterwards they will be immune to [Tyche's Favor] for the next 24 hours, and I can choose to either dispel the (De)Buff if it's not to my liking, or play around with the outcome if I'm confident in my victory... And as of this very moment, I'll admit, I am not confident, not in the slightest.

Leaping into battle, I first attempt to swat away a few of the creature's tendrils, only to nearly lose my balance when I feel no resistance.

'It is smoke!'

The tendrils drift near my hand, coil around my forearm to my dismay. The sensation is agonizing, akin to having someone press a scorching hot dryer against my skin—if that dryer belonged to the Devil himself. 'Oh, wait! It does belong to the Devil, and you practically delivered yourself on a platter!'

I lecture myself wryly, a feeble attempt to divert my attention from the excruciating pain that's causing me to spasm. Eyes rolling to the back of my head, I struggle futilely to break free, but the tendrils seem to regrow at a much faster rate than I can dismantle them.

Suddenly, something catches my eye—my hands are no longer the soft, youthful appendages they once were, but rather the weathered, calloused hands of a seasoned seafarer—the kind that come from years of hauling in catches under the unforgiving Sun. 'What on Earth is—?'

I blink, and the hands vanish, replaced by the old ones, but the cracks in the fabric of reality—glitches like in a malfunctioning game remain. And so it all clicks in my head, just like that… To confirm my hypothesis, I turn to look at the grounds, but nothing seems out of place. 'That explains it.'

Had Angra Mainyu remained this active, the process of rebuilding would've been thwarted, and Fuyuki Central Park—constructed as a tribute to those who tragically lost their lives the night of the Great Fire—would not have existed during the Fifth War. "This, none of this is real, is it? It's just memory."

I declare with an uneasy—pained grin, my words reverberating in the air, shattering the Illusion in an instant. Wiping the sweat beading my forehead, I sigh in relief. 'Thank the Gods it doesn't call out my bluff.'

Though judging from its animalistic behaviors, the Daemon probably lacks the intelligence capacity to process what a bluff is, in spite of its nature.

As I had suspected, I find myself back on the familiar grounds, lying on my back instead of standing upright.

I heave, the phantom-pain lancing through my bruised flesh, while the sharp edges of the ground press into my skin. "Is that the best you can do, King of Daemons?"

I taunt, calling upon the first Daemon—the Embodiment of all crimes and evils, the Original Sin that ironically stands as the weakest of the great Evils made in the image of Man. The creature lets out a shrill, frustrated screech as countless eyes suddenly sprout across its writhing form.

If this spectacle were ever to be broadcast, I'm confident it would be heavily censored and blurred out, all in the name of protecting the innocent eyes of children, yet I'm the only one who seems to notice the presence of a giant Pillar slapped in the center of the Old District. 'No wonder Archer says the place's a Reality Marble…'

The raw resentment of the dearly-departed, combined with the ancient Curse that has endured since the Dawn of Man, has birthed something akin to one's Inner-World, but isn't any single person's.

Rather, it is an amalgamation of everyone's final moments—shades condemned to experience the moment of their death over and over until the Curse is somehow broken.

How one might even begin to tackle such a monumental task, I haven't the foggiest idea. And to be honest, I don't intend to concern myself with it unless explicitly hired to do so, either.

My original plan was simply to swing by for a swift power boost before merrily continuing on my way.

As one may guess, said plan is now dashed… 'Or is it?'

Grabbing Esitazione, I turn and flee in the opposite direction, leaving the howling Souls to their business.

Angra Mainyu, of course, tries to give chase, but it is bound to the specific district where the Grail had spilt—never to leave ever again.

'Now that is another thing to cross off my list—being rational in a clearly horror setting.'

I'm afraid the first step in taking down the Overlord List hasn't been completed yet.

'Even villains have to choose their allies carefully...' Our objectives are simply too disparate—I aim to dominate and rule the world with an iron-fist, while he desires the complete annihilation of Mankind. It's a shame, but we're just not meant to be.

Vanishing deeper into Fuyuki, I wipe the cold-sweats from my forehead, sighing after having escaped a perilous situation, but not unscathed it appears.

* DING!

[Event Conclusion:]

> You've chosen to run from the Unbirthed God, yet refrain from insulting it as you ought to have, hence you've drawn its attention.

Earnings: [Ire of the Evil God].

"I'm… Not entirely sure if that's good news or bad."

Opening the [ToI] to find no new Branch has emerged, I sigh and rub my chin. "So much for my edgy power-up…"

That night, I find myself unable to settle, tossing and turning in bed. Normally I would collapse from exhaustion, sometimes with a few dislocated or broken bones that force my body into a hibernative state. But with Kirei away, no sparring session to be had and thus no the outlet for all this excess energy as a result, it seems Sandman has decided to skip me yet again.

Shifting restlessly from one side to the other, unable to find a comfortable position, I finally sit up, feeling a pair of eyes fixed on my back. Strange, as I was under the impression I was alone in the house.

Even Gil has taken a trip to the Middle East—the old Uruk if I had to guess—doing Gods-know-what, leaving me to my own devices and the entire Church as my playground. The very scary-looking and obviously haunted Church…

Pausing briedly, I sit crossed-legged, before whirling around at the dark corner, hoping to catch a ghost in action, but the only thing that greets me is, as expected, a dark and damp corner. "Just you wait, I will get you one day…" Mumbling to myself, I drop onto the mattress, trying my best to relax and allow sleep to claim me, because there are few joys in life that can compare to sleep, and right now I have access to none of them.

I'd rather not lose sleep as well. At last, once my hyperactive mind has settled and my restless body forced into stillness, I drift into that hazy, liminal state between wakefulness and sleep; the state of half-awakeness one can still vaguely sense their surroundings, even as my consciousness begins to slip away.

I've heard these transitional moments can sometimes induce hallucinations, but I doubt any vision would be as vivid as the silvery hair spilling across my chest. The woman lifts her head, her ruby-red eyes glinting with mischief. Who else could it be but an Einzbern? There are few characters and Houses as memorable as they are.

My groggy; sleep-addled mind briefly entertains the thought that perhaps the Einzbern Family has sent more of their dolls to Fuyuki for some reason.

But they are as reclusive as Magi get, so unless a Holy Grail War happened in the few hours I was alseep, she definitely wasn't sent by the Einzbern, which leaves me with but one other conclusion:

"So… Which are you supposed to be—Irisviel or Justeaze?" Climbing atop me, the Einzbern Homuculus delicately tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, tilting her head with a soft, serene smile.

Yet I can tell this expression is contrived, for it is not joy that dances in her eyes, but rather a deep-seated madness and a thirst for violence. "Depends,"

The World's Evil lies strewn across my chest, our faces mere inches apart, the tips of our noses almost brushing. "Which'd you rather I be?"

"Standing." I reply, "And ideally in a different form."

The creature pouts. "How curious… I was under the impression this shape was quite alluring to younger males."

"It is." Nodding, I add. "Which is precisely why I want you off me."

"Aw… Is someone embarrassed?"

"More like guilty."

While I may detest Kiritsugu's entire ideology and philosophy, one should not touch their partner's wife, regardless of how reluctant and prickly of a partner he may be.

That's underhanded, and the sort of actions that will tarnish your reputation for fleeting indulgences. Who'd want to do business with someone who is willing to jump into bed with other people's wife? It's the vilest crime in the Bro Code—the most unspeakable and unforgivable of crimes.

"Now, get the Hell off me." Glancing at the room to check for emergency escape, I quickly notice small details that look incresibly out-of-place—the lamp whose outline twists and morphs in shape as if to accommodate my memory of it;

The billowinv curtains despite the conspicuous absence of any breeze or gust;

"What's with you and all these illusions?" Chuckling, I start to address the Unbirthed God. "A bit of a trickster, are you?"

"How charming…" The World's Evil giggles, eyes crinkled as she scoots to the side, hand raised coyly to conceal her lips. "I adore him, but Kiri can be quite reserved. Our love story would have been far more picturesque if he behaved more his age!"

I respond sarcastically, "He's in his late twenties, early thirties; that's precisely how people his age are meant to act—broken and despondent upon realizing their heart's desires will never come to fruition, and the only dream that comes true involves soiling one's bed." I pause, leveling a stern glare at the Umbirthed God. "And drop the act, Angra Mainyu."

"What act?" The Daemon has the audacity to look innocent, unblinking eyes peering into my forehead questioningly. "This, perhaps?"

She gestures towards herself. "Regrettably, I am not only nameless, but also formless. The only way for me to manifest is to assume the guise of another, but maybe you'll be more at ease if I do this instead?" Its visage shifts from that of a beautiful woman to one with puffed cheeks, acne-riddled skin, and a mangled third of the face—like something heavy has dropped on her.

"I asked you to take on a different form, and your first choice is the ugly-bastard look?" I ask with a touch of exasperation.

"You don't want this, you dislike that—what fucking hassle you humans all turn out to be!" Angra Mainyu yells, skin blistering like he's on fire.

The connection dawns on me instantly…

Angra Mainyu, in the primordial days, possessed neither a physical form nor a distinct personality. Though its origins were human, over the endless eons it has lived through, its identity has long since dissipated, leaving only an amorphous, genderless entity. Whichever guise it adopts, it will mimic that particular persona.

'Ah, this must be a victim of the Great Fire.' I guess.

"Surprised?"

He growls, his face contorted into a mask of fury, twisted lines of anger etching across his features. "I was the one you chose to abandon in order to save those two brats! It was a pretty fucking shitty thing for you to do, wouldn't you say? You heard my voice, yet you abandoned me still!"

I shrug nonchalantly, and respond.

"I already had two kids in each hand, an unconscious adult slung over my back, and literal hellfire closing in on us. What exactly did you expect me to do in that situation?"

"Something!" It screeches madly, its fingers—smoked dry and black—clawing at the bedsheet as the fire begins to spread. "There was nothing I could have done." I had no access to Magecraft to rely on, and while I did briefly consider putting all the victims I found into something to carry, everything's scorching hot from the intense heat. "Is there a point to this conversation, Evil 'God?' Did you expect me to cry and grovel before you—apologizing like I owe you something?"

The accusatory look on his face immediately dissipates as I respond, reverting back to Irisviel's features—the same nightgown she wore when trying to persuade Kiritsugu to put an end to Humanity's nonsense. "There is." She says, her tone calm and measured. "You seem like a strapping young man! How'd you like to help a lady out with something?"

"No," I cut in firmly, refusing to entertain the line of discussion. Irisviel's expression shifts, a pouty tone tinged her voice. "Don't be so hasty to reject! Listen to what I have to say, at least."

"I won't be a part of destroying the world. Where'd I live then? What'd I do without other people around? Rule over nothing?"

The Unbirthed God interrupts, "Go to the 'Reverse Side.' Why settle for humans when you can have Gods, Fairies, and all kinds of Phantasmal beings? Just imagine—you could rebuild the New World, with you as the most-high."

"Tempting offer, but I'll still have to decline." I reply.

The level of bloodshed was simply too much for me to stomach.

However, the goal here is to prove I could ascend to the status of a Heroic Spirit, if not more, in this modern age—kind of like those 'Minecraft Hardcore Survival' challenge back in the early and mid 2010s. Furthermore, I have serious doubts Artoria will be too thrilled to find a world in ruin.

The Daemon clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Tsk!" She poses yet another offer, "How about you help Kiri and I reunite? I heard you've got an interest in his Family Crest…"

The Daemon gestures with her hand flattened into a blade, drawing it across her neck. "You can do whatever you want with his corpse, just drag him here and—"

She trails off, cupping her hands next to her chin in a cutesy anime-esque pose, humming a tune that feels oddly reminiscent of an old ode. "I'm not killing Kiritsugu, I may dislike the guy on a fundamental level, but that is not enough of a cause for stonecold murder."

I guess I'm okay with taking a life if needed, I think, since there's not a chance in Hells I'll get through Nasuverse being an idealist. It's bridge I'll cross when I get there, but the punishment should match the offense. "Urgh, are you one of those 'violence is never the answer' guy? If so, I take it back. You're not fun at all. At least Kiri doesn't have an issue with killing."

"On the contrary, I believe violence can solve pretty much every problem on the planet."

Plague?

Kill all the infected.

Overpopulation?

Strict government-enforced birth control and purposeful divisions.

Money?

Rob the bank.

And so on, so forth.

Kill enough people, and whatever problem one has will sort itself out.

"But not when it's unwarranted. Bring me something I can actually agree to next time." I yawn, tiredly rubbing my eyes, even though I'm already asleep and in a dream.

"What more could I possibly offer? You have already turned me down." If not for my prior familiarity, I'm not sure I could tell when she's joking or being sincere. At the moment, she appears utterly heartbroken, her sobs ringing in my ears painfully. "If you're finished, the door is that way. Either you show yourself out, or I will have to 'Kiritsugu' you."

The Daemon laughs tauntingly, "Like you could do it! You're nothing like Kiri, just a gutless loudmouth—!"

"You don't know a thing about me, do you?" My fingers clamp around its slender neck. The nightmare is based on reality, so as feeble and fragile as the Homunculus was those last days of her life, it reflects on Angra as well, reducing the Daemon to its knees.

Yet, it is not fear I detect in its eyes, but instead a confusing combination of anger and a tiny smidgen of joy.

As the dream reaches its climax, Angra's presence fades away, shattering the vision and jolting me awake.

The entire day I moved in a daze, overwhelmed by a sense of misery I hadn't felt since my transmigration.

Strange, I got up at 6 AM—having slept through the full 8 hours, yet feel groggy still, as though I'm floating in a cloud. 'Must be Angra.' There's no other explanation, it must be the Unbirthed God. Physically I'm as fit as can be, but my brain signals are being sent through a fog.

By some miracles, I manage to survive the day, albeit with quite a few near accidents in the soup kitchen.

Of course, there's a bright side to almost everything: I have instantly been upgraded from 'the upbeat kid who saved more people than the actual authorities,' to 'the upbeat kid who saved people and lost sleep helping out in the homeless soup kitchen.'

Two days later, I received an invite from the Minister who will be attending a ceremony in Fuyuki to honor those who lost their lives.

Apparently, it serves two purposes: 1) To strengthen ties between Japan, the US, and Europe through my appearance, and 2) To uplift the spirits of the citizens.

I've heard even the royal family will be there, but that doesn't excite me much.

I might have felt honored before meeting Gilgamesh, but with the Golden Queen in my contacts, royalty just does not impress me anymore. Soon, the day of the ceremony finally arrives—the same day school's restarting so the adults can show up without their gaggles of kids messing up what's meant to be a solemn event.

The priest, who really needs to touch grass more instead of skulking around his home, has refrained from participating, hence the Tigress' presence.

To be fair, as the sole Heiress to the Fujimura Group—the most influential Yakuza Group in the region, with or without me she'll still have to attend regardless.

Watching the woman devour the entire spread before her like a famished tiger, I can't help but palm my face.

Stealthily, I try to slink away out of embarrassement, but she suddenly grabs hold of my collar. "And just where do you think you're going?"

"Finish your food before you speak, woman!" For a Heiress, her etiquette is really lacking. I groan, straightening up as I hear approaching footsteps.

"Ah, the young hero! Are you enjoying yourself?" I turn to find a man with faded hair, long, overgrown brows. "Minister Murayama? It is a pleasure to meet you." I extend a hand to shake his, and the man gladly accepts.

"I've certainly heard tales of your exploits, young man, and I must say, if only there were more men in our country with your bravery."

I flash the bashful smile I've perfected after practicing it a thousand times in the mirror and answer politely. "It's really nothing, sir. I only did what anyone would in that situation."

"Not just anyone," He corrects, then pivots to address Taiga. "Ms. Fujimura, is that right?"

Caught completely off-guard, the Tigress chokes, pounding on her chest in a futile attempt to swallow down the mouthful of food she'd hastily stuffed down earlier.

Unfortunately, the added theatrics only make the food that much harder to choke down.

But after a few labored gulps and purple-faced attempts which make us both question if we should give her a helping hand, she manages to get it all down. "Prime Minister, it is a real honor to meet you in person... My grandfather has talked a lot about you in the past!"

"Only good things, I hope?"

The three of us engage in a bit of polite small talk before the Minister is summoned to take the stage. "I'm afraid I must be going now. It was a delight chatting with you, Magnus-san, Fujimura-san. When you see your grandfather, please let him know I'll be meeting with him in person shortly after the ceremony."

With a respectful bow, the politician strides up to the stage, the serene smile he'd worn earlier instantly dissolving, replaced by a grave frown.

Back suddenly bending a bit, as if carrying mountains of burdens on bis shoulders, the politicuan walks upstage in order to express his 'sincere sadness' to the victims. Flashes of the cameras erupt, drowning the stage in a sea of white. I can only imagine what being up there feels like... 'Probably like you're staring directly at a flashbang.' The good news: I won't have to imagine much longer, since after the Minister, I will be up next.

It doubles as a bad news, since I have severe stage-fright. "Are you worried?"

I nod faintly at the Tigress. "Sort of."

"Hah! Never thought I'd see you afraid, one day!" Smile brighter than the Sun, Taiga jokingly mocks, then stops when she spots my pale face and sweat-covered forehead. "Wait, you're not joking, are you?"

"—In response to this great tragedy, 31M Yen has been issued, and by tomorrow all individuals affected will be receive a small amount to get them back on their feet. I know! This is not what you all want, but it's all I can offer, along with my condolences—"

"Leo-tan?"

Shaken from my daze, I release a heavy sigh, turning to face the Tigress; my features carefully crafted to conceal the fear lurking within from surfacing. "Yes?"

"It's going to be alright…"

She places her hands firmly on my shoulders, her gaze steadfast. "You're going to go up there and give the best speech of your life. I know you will!"

"Will I?" I smile awkwardly. "Doesn't feel that way, but alright. Cheer for me?"

"Of course!" She reaches out to playfully ruffle my hair, but I hastily retreat out of her grasp. "That's quite enough, Taiga-nee. Don't push your luck."

I've meticulously styled my hair to look shorter, donned a pair of glasses, and slipped into a light gray suit—the full cost of which's covered by the Fujimura Group.

At first, they had wanted to outfit me in something far more extravagant, but in order to sell the whole 'humble hero' persona, I opted for the cheaper, more affordable option, which they interpreted as a display of my modesty.

It was not an angle I had necessarily intended to play up, but since the way they treat me has improved remarkably as a result, why destroy a good thing? "—Mr. Magnus, please come up stage."

"Time of reckoning."

"Relax! You'll be fine."

Taiga slaps my shoulder, simultaneously pushing me up and off my seat. Stiffly, I approach the Minister, my back just a little too straight as he puts a few colorful medals on my chest—medals that I'll happily admit I know not the name of. "Was charging in a fire less scary than this?" The Minister whispers.

"It was." I reply, a little more curt than usual.

"Be brave." Every step towards the mic feels agonizingly long, yet something seems to blooms inside my chest—a joy I can't quite comprehend. Rows of sympathetic sighs and gasps echo, as I hide my face to conceal the smirk spreading ever wider on my face.

"—The first thing I wish to say is: Sorry… Sorry to all whom I hadn't been able to rescue; to the parents who lost their child; to the children who will no longer have a place to call home."

By the time I begin my speech, my grin's gone, instead a mournful; distanced look pulls at my features. In my mind play the memories of the day I let my deceased cat drift down a river in a cardboard box with all her favorite food, but the press and people won't see it that way.

They'll see a child who's reminiscing about the day of the tragedy, genuinely beating himself over those he failed instead of being proud of the ones he saved.

'First step, completed.'

— — — — —

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