Sword of Fate | Chapter 17

An impossible trial. The trapped were regular people, not warriors able to slay the creatures that lurked in the darkness of this realm. They had hoped to live out their dreams, not live in them. When death equated to falling in battle against inhuman creations gifted with extraordinary capabilities, when victory equated to slaying a hundred titans that could easily slaughter any exceptional warrior as well as possessing unknown powers transcending normal human capability, what hope did those untried warriors have?

There were children that broke down in tears. There were others that cried out in distress. There were more that looked on in disbelief.

Some embraced the announcement with glee, eager to have found a new start. Others took it as a challenge, an opportunity to prove their worth.

And then, out of them all, there was a black-haired boy, even younger than Shirou. That boy turned his back on the crowd and set off on his own, leaving behind his first comrade in that realm. With the belief that he could not protect them, he took a path of solitude with only his blade in hand, grim determination in his eyes.

Shirou realized it was a dream. This vision he witnessed was not reality.

The scene shifted to a battlefield. Warriors armed with weaponry of all kinds faced off against armored kobolds.

Shirou watched the combat, noting the desperate ferocity that each warrior fought with. No, not warriors. They were only acting that role. These were ordinary people, fighting against all odds for their lives. Fighting, to escape from that nightmarish steel cage.

A knightly warrior rushed in to attack a colossal kobold. The feral tyrant let out a horrific grin and his sword, a nodachi, glowed with a bloody crimson light. The next moment, the kobold struck with a vertical slash, knocking the knight high in the air.

Shirou despaired that he could do nothing to help, but calmed himself. This was a dream. He didn't know why it had occurred, but Shirou decided to make the most of it. The red-head focused on the combat, and found his eyes drawn to the kobold's blade. Because of that, he could see the following attack.

A blinding lurch, launching the kobold into the air. The nodachi cut across the knight's chest, too fast to be parried. In the next instant, the nodachi had completed a second arc, cutting across the knight's abdomen. Then, at a speed impossible for a human to perform, it thrust through the knight's chest, piercing his heart.

The knight propelled across the dim room, crashing against the floor near the same black-haired boy Shirou had seen earlier. Moments later, the knight shattered, vanishing in a display of crystalline fragments.

The facade ended, and the 'warriors' fighting were shown to be nothing more than ordinary people that feared for their lives. Chaos ensued in their ranks, and victory seemed far away. Yet, going against the grain, the black-haired boy stepped forward. He alone drew his blade and challenged the towering kobold lord.

A hero. Without a doubt, the black-haired boy was a hero. Shirou thought it was clear. Yet, after the battle, the boy was smeared by those he saved, marked with the cross of the vilest villain: a selfish boy who used his knowledge for his own self. And he accepted it.

Shirou couldn't understand. The boy's actions were admirable. If Shirou had the chance, he would have done the same. The boy risked his life and fought against a towering foe beyond human capabilities and won with his own strength. But even then, he was marked as a villain. He was blamed for the very death he sought to avenge.

Why? Why did they scorn him? Couldn't they see the pain in his eyes? Couldn't they see that grim determination upon his face when he accepted their condemnation? He was a hero, so why did they reject him?

"Why would someone blame their savior for their problems?" Shirou blinked. The dream ended, and only his words served as a reminder to its existence. The details of the dream faded, but he remembered the majority of it. Now that he was awake, Shirou realized that the boy was Kirito. The swordsman appeared a few years younger in the dream, but there was no mistaking it. "Those people... why did they say those things about Kirito? He saved them, didn't he? So why wasn't he thanked?"

Yes, that was the core of the issue. For Emiya Shirou, saving someone was something engrained in his psyche. He lived for that act, to aid people in their time of need, something that was as sacred and essential to him as breathing. While the most he could do now was help people in their tasks, he remembered that they were always grateful for his aid, even if grudgingly so. Yet almost all of the people Kirito protected in that battle had scorned him, shouting hurtful words and curses. The fact that such an act was punished rather than awarded... it bothered him.

Shirou shook his head. "I'll ask him about it later." He stood up and stretched, then took a step towards the washroom. He staggered as a searing sensation coursed throughout his body, burning him from the inside out.

"Grah... What...?" It was as bad as the pain he had from making his magic circuit, but multiplied at least tenfold. Yet, as quickly as it came, it vanished and left Shirou as relaxed as if he had a full night's rest.

"That was... different." Shirou took a tentative step forward. Nothing happened. "Huh. Strange." He shook his head and continued to the washroom, putting the experience in the back of his mind. After splashing some water on his face, Shirou headed towards Kirito's room. If they wanted to survive in this death game they were in, the Master and Servant needed a plan.

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