Fate/Stay Night

The night sky over Shinto was ablaze, the horizon painted with hues of deep orange and fiery red. The once peaceful city had become a hellish landscape, consumed by a devastating fire. Towering flames roared like beasts, devouring everything in their path—buildings, streets, and the lives of countless people. It was as if the city itself was being offered as a sacrifice to some wrathful god.

Amidst the chaos, a young boy struggled to breathe. His small, fragile body lay on the cracked asphalt of a burning street, barely conscious. His chest heaved with the effort to draw in air, each breath a searing agony as smoke and heat filled his lungs. Around him, the world was reduced to ash and cinders, the heat so intense that it felt as if his very soul was being scorched.

This boy was Shirou. Barely seven years old, his once-bright eyes were now dimmed by pain and terror. He had been with his parents just moments before, walking home after a day out, when the disaster struck. The memory was a blur—a sudden explosion, a deafening roar, and then the blinding flash of fire consuming everything. He could vaguely recall his mother's scream, the way his father had tried to shield him, and then… nothing. The world had gone dark, the sounds of his parents' voices drowned out by the inferno.

Now, alone and helpless, Shirou's young mind could not comprehend what had happened. The pain was overwhelming, his body battered and bruised, burned in places where the flames had licked at his skin. Yet, more than the physical pain, it was the emptiness that tore at his heart—the void left by the sudden, horrifying loss of his parents.

His vision was fading, the edges of his sight blurring as consciousness slipped away. The world around him seemed distant, as if he were floating away from it all, leaving the suffering behind. He wanted to close his eyes and let the darkness take him. Maybe then, the pain would stop.

But fate had other plans.

Through the haze of heat and smoke, a figure appeared—a man, cloaked in shadow, yet illuminated by the flames. He moved with purpose, his eyes scanning the devastation with a mixture of guilt and desperation. This was Kiritsugu Emiya, a man whose hands were stained with the blood of many, whose heart bore the weight of countless sins. Yet, in this moment, he was a man driven by one singular, desperate hope: to save at least one life.

Kiritsugu had fought in the Fourth Holy Grail War, a battle of magi that had torn through the city, unleashing horrors beyond mortal comprehension. He had fought with the belief that he could save the world by obtaining the Grail, a powerful artifact said to grant any wish. But in the end, the Grail had proven to be nothing more than a vessel of corruption, and Kiritsugu had been forced to destroy it, triggering the very disaster he now witnessed.

The sight of the destruction wrenched at Kiritsugu's heart. The fires that raged through Shinto were his doing, the lives lost his responsibility. He had tried to be a hero, and in the process, had become a monster. The weight of his actions bore down on him, threatening to crush his spirit. Yet, amidst the carnage, he clung to a sliver of hope—the hope that he could still save someone, anyone, from the hell he had unleashed.

As he wandered through the burning streets, his eyes fell upon the small, motionless figure of a boy lying among the ruins. His heart skipped a beat as he realized that the child was still alive, albeit barely. Without hesitation, Kiritsugu rushed to the boy's side, his movements frantic and desperate. He knelt beside Shirou, his hands trembling as he reached out to check for a pulse.

The boy was alive, but only just. His skin was hot to the touch, his breathing shallow and ragged. Kiritsugu could see the burns marring the boy's flesh, the blood seeping from wounds inflicted by falling debris. The child's body was a testament to the horrors he had endured—a frail, broken thing that clung to life with a determination that seemed almost unnatural.

Kiritsugu's mind raced. He had no time to waste. If he didn't act quickly, the boy would die—another innocent life claimed by the madness of the Holy Grail War. Kiritsugu had failed to save the world, but perhaps, in saving this boy, he could atone, even if only a little, for the sins he had committed.

With a resolve born of desperation, Kiritsugu made a decision. He had one last card to play, one final miracle he could perform. It was a risky move, one that could very well cost him his life, but it was the only way.

Avalon.

The name echoed in his mind like a prayer. Avalon was a holy artifact, a scabbard once belonging to the legendary King Arthur. It possessed miraculous healing properties, capable of restoring even the gravest wounds. Kiritsugu had used it once before, during the war, but now, it would serve a different purpose.

Kiritsugu reached into his coat and pulled out the scabbard. The golden relic glimmered faintly in the firelight, its surface unmarred by the flames. He took a deep breath, his hands steady as he prepared to perform the ritual that would save the boy.

"Hang on, kid," Kiritsugu whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the fire. "I'm going to save you. I swear it."

He pressed the scabbard against Shirou's chest, right over the boy's heart. Then, with a muttered incantation, he channeled his remaining mana into the artifact. The response was immediate. A soft, golden light emanated from Avalon, spreading across Shirou's body like a warm, soothing wave. The boy's wounds began to heal, the burns receding, the cuts closing. His breathing steadied, the pained gasps giving way to calm, even breaths.

But the magic did more than just heal. As the light of Avalon enveloped Shirou, something deeper, more profound, took place. The scabbard didn't just mend his body—it bonded with his soul, embedding itself within the very core of his being. Avalon's power became one with Shirou, a permanent part of him, ensuring that he would never again suffer such grievous harm.

As the light faded, Kiritsugu slumped back, his energy spent. He had done it—he had saved the boy. But the act had drained him, leaving him weak and exhausted. Yet, as he looked down at the now-peacefully sleeping child, he felt a sense of relief, a rare emotion for a man who had seen so much darkness.

Kiritsugu knew that this child's life would never be the same. By saving him, he had inadvertently altered the course of the boy's destiny. But what kind of future awaited Shirou? What kind of life could he lead, having been touched by the supernatural, having been saved by a man like Kiritsugu Emiya?

The thought weighed heavily on Kiritsugu's mind as he gathered the boy into his arms. The fires still raged around them, but Kiritsugu was determined. He had to get Shirou to safety, to find a place where the boy could recover, where he could start anew.

As he walked through the burning streets, cradling Shirou close, Kiritsugu made a silent vow. He would care for this child, raise him as his own. He would teach Shirou the ways of the world, the truths that lay hidden from ordinary people. And he would ensure that Shirou never had to suffer the same fate as those who had perished in the flames.

The night seemed endless, the fires unyielding. But eventually, Kiritsugu found refuge in a small, unscathed building on the outskirts of Shinto. There, he laid Shirou down on a makeshift bed, covering the boy with his own coat to keep him warm.

For a long while, Kiritsugu simply watched the boy sleep. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of person Shirou would become, what kind of man he would grow into. Would he follow in Kiritsugu's footsteps, becoming a magus? Or would he live an ordinary life, blissfully unaware of the horrors that lurked in the shadows of the world?

The thought of Shirou leading a normal life brought a bittersweet smile to Kiritsugu's lips. He knew that such a future was unlikely. The boy had already been touched by the supernatural, already bore the mark of a world far beyond the mundane. But perhaps, with Kiritsugu's guidance, Shirou could navigate that world without losing himself to it.

As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, Kiritsugu finally allowed himself to rest. He had saved a life, and in doing so, had given himself a reason to keep going. The weight of his sins still pressed down on him, but for the first time in a long while, he felt that maybe—just maybe—there was still hope.

And so, with Shirou sleeping soundly by his side, Kiritsugu closed his eyes and let the darkness take him. The fire had burned itself out, but its impact would linger for years to come, shaping the destinies of those who had survived its wrath.

For Shirou Emiya, the Great Fire was not the end. It was only the beginning.