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Shirou stared at the hanging body for a very long time, his breath heavy in his chest.
He knew.
Of course, he knew.
It was a monster. A Harpy. A creature born of the Dungeon, whose instincts were only to kill, devour, and mercilessly destroy. Many adventurers had died by their claws, many had lost limbs or their lives to sudden attacks from the dark ceilings. Monsters were not creatures deserving of pity. That was a fact he had understood since first picking up a sword in this world.
But...
BUT EVEN A MONSTER DOESN'T DESERVE TO BE TREATED LIKE THIS!
The anger that had only been simmering at the edges of his nerves now exploded within his chest like embers suddenly doused in oil. Not because he considered the Harpy "innocent." Not because he forgot what monsters were capable of doing to humans. But because... There was a limit. A line that even a monster should not cross.
Rape. Torture. Desecration of a lifeless body. That was no longer about "eradicating a threat." That was purely rotten lust. A brutality that not even a wild beast would inflict upon its own kind.
"What the hell is this..." his voice cracked, almost inaudible. "What kind of people... could do something this low?"
Shirou clenched his right fist until his knuckles turned white.
"Trace on."
A faint blue light enveloped his palm.
In an instant, two twin swords appeared in the air—Kanshou, pitch black, and Bakuya, shining white. The short, curved blades vibrated slowly as if sensing their owner's emotions.
Shirou raised Kanshou towards the chains binding the Harpy's wrist.
CRACK! CREAK! CREAK!
Two quick, precise slashes cut through the thick iron chains as if they were mere cotton thread. Pieces of metal clattered to the stone floor—clang... clang... clang...—echoing in the narrow room.
He moved to the feet, then to the chain on the neck. Each slash sounded louder than the last, as if the sword itself was angry.
After the last chain broke, the Harpy's body slumped forward limply.
Shirou immediately stepped forward, catching the body before it touched the floor.
It was lighter than he'd imagined. Its bones were fragile, its torn wings felt like wet cloth clinging to its back. The greenish-blue feathers, once surely beautiful, were now dull, sticky with old blood and sweat. Its body was cold—freezing—like a stone long submerged at the bottom of a river.
Carefully, almost as if holding something incredibly fragile, Shirou carried the corpse to the thin mattress in the corner of the room. He laid it down slowly on the yellowed, worn cloth, arranging the wings so they wouldn't be painfully folded, even though he knew this creature could no longer feel anything.
Shirou knelt beside the bed, gazing at the face hidden by long hair.
Blackish-green hair cascaded like a frozen waterfall, covering most of its face. Shirou brushed aside a few strands with a trembling fingertip—just enough to see the lines of its face clearly.
Pale lips slightly parted, as if about to utter something left unsaid.
Long eyelashes stuck together by dried tears and blood.
A small, elegant nose, almost too delicate for a creature supposed to be ferocious.
And the skin... skin pale like a long-buried pearl, yet still with a faint luster that made it look like a tragic statue created by a mad artist.
Like a cursed princess, trapped in a tower, awaiting a savior who never came—and finally dying in cruel solitude.
Shirou swallowed. His throat felt dry.
"Why... did you have to end up like this?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "You're a monster... but you didn't deserve to die as a toy."
He bowed his head, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to calm the chaotic beating of his heart.
Then he opened his eyes again. His gaze fell on the thick iron choker still encircling the Harpy's neck—a control device of the same type he had found on the ant queen and the Hellhound, but far more complex, covered in intricate runes that pulsed faintly even though its wearer was dead.
Shirou gripped Kanshou's handle tighter.
"I won't let this filthy thing remain on your neck."
He raised the black sword with both hands, placing its blade right below the choker, very close to the cold, pale skin.
"Don't move," he murmured, even though he knew no one was listening.
Shirou took a deep breath.
Then, with an extremely slow movement, extremely careful—as if dissecting something alive—he slid Kanshou's blade.
GRRIIIT...
The choker's metal slowly split apart, tiny sparks flying like dying fireflies.
CREAK... CREAK...
Until finally—
Kling.
The choker came off, falling to the floor with a light metallic sound that felt heavy in Shirou's ears.
He stared at the neck, now free from the shackle.
There was a purplish-red mark there—the trace of the chain pressing on the skin for too long. But at least... now there was no more of that humiliating control device.
Shirou placed Kanshou and Bakuya beside the bed, then pulled the tattered blanket over the Harpy's body up to its chest—as if giving it the last bit of dignity he could offer.
He stood up slowly, gazing at the lying body for a long time.
"Sorry..." he said softly, almost inaudibly. "I came too late."
Shirou stood still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the body lying peacefully on the worn mattress. The room felt increasingly narrow, increasingly stifling, as if the stone walls were pressing on his chest. He let out a long sigh.
"I... what should I do with you..." he murmured.
He couldn't bear to just leave the corpse like that. Letting it slowly rot in this cold, dark basement—no one would find it, no one would care. That thought made his stomach ache again.
The simplest method was actually clear. Remove the magic stone from the Harpy's chest. Once that core was taken, the monster's body would crumble to dust, vanish without a trace like thousands of other monsters he had killed. Quick. Clean. Efficient.
But Shirou's hands didn't move.
"If I do that..." he whispered, "...you'd just die like an ordinary monster."
He bowed his head, his jaw tightening. He didn't know when the standards in his head had changed. This Harpy was clearly a monster—a Dungeon creature that was ultimately dangerous to humans. But what it experienced... wasn't a death in battle. Wasn't the result of mutual killing on the battlefield.
This was torture. This was humiliation.
Shirou closed his eyes, and then a memory surfaced.
Floor 18. Quiet air. Soft crystal light. Simple graves lined up neatly—the final resting place of the Astraea Familia. He could still remember the feeling of standing there with Ryuu, the respectful silence, the quiet but profound sadness.
"...I know a worthy place for you," he uttered softly.
That decision settled without further hesitation.
Shirou stepped closer, then picked up the shrouded Harpy body. He held it tightly against his chest, careful not to bend the damaged wings. Its body was light—too light—and its coldness pierced through his clothes.
He paused for a moment.
Shirou's gaze fell on the Harpy's neck.
The iron choker... left a deep wound.
"Your shackles end here."
He adjusted the blanket, making sure the Harpy's neck and shoulders were neatly covered. After that, without saying anything else, Shirou turned and stepped out of the room.
The sound of his footsteps echoed softly in the narrow corridor.
Tap... tap... tap...
Still cradling the body, Shirou climbed the staircase toward the trapdoor. Each step felt heavier than the last, not because of the physical burden—but because of the decision he carried with him.
He didn't know if this was right.
He only knew... this was what he could do.
The trapdoor hinges creaked softly as Shirou pushed it open from below.
Kreeeek...
The fresh air of the eighteenth floor immediately greeted his face. The smell of damp earth, moss, and the calm forest breeze—a stark contrast to the stifling basement earlier. The orange crystal light from the ceiling reflected softly on the dense trees, making the underground world look like an eternal twilight.
Still holding the harpy's body tightly, Shirou stepped out.
He closed the trapdoor gently.
Thuk.
No one should know that place so easily.
He adjusted the blanket's position, ensuring the creature's face remained covered, then began walking deeper into the forest—toward a place he knew.
The Astraea Familia graveyard.
His steps were slow. Careful.
Dry leaves crunched under his boots.
Crisp... crisp... crisp...
Throughout the walk, his thoughts wouldn't stop churning.
"...What would Ryuu say..." he murmured.
The image of that elf's face appeared in his mind—blue eyes always firm, full of hatred for monsters because of all they had taken from her.
Her friends. Her family. Alise. Kaguya. Lyra.
All died because of a monster.
And now...
He, Shirou, was carrying a monster's corpse like this, intending to give it a proper burial.
"If she saw... she'd probably be angry," he whispered to himself. "Or disappointed."
His chest felt heavy.
"But... even so..."
His arms tightened slightly, hugging the light body.
"...I couldn't just leave her like that."
Not because he considered the monster holy. Not because he forgot what they did to humans.
But because what humans did to her... was far worse.
Step by step, the trees grew denser. The sounds of Rivira faded. The world became silent.
Only the rustle of the wind and the beat of his own heart.
Soon, he arrived.
A small, open field.
Peaceful. Tranquil.
There, simple tombstones stood in rows.
Not fancy marble.
Not statues.
Rather, weapons were planted in the ground.
Broken spears. Wooden staves. Boomerangs. Bent swords.
Those weapons stood like silent guardians—markers for those who never returned home.
Their bodies were long gone, annihilated by the Juggernaut without a trace.
All that remained was iron.
And memories.
Shirou stopped at the edge of that area.
The wind blew softly.
Fuuuu...
He bowed his head slightly.
"...Pardon me," he uttered softly, as if speaking to the spirits resting there.
But he didn't step inside.
Instead, his feet moved sideways, stepping away several meters from the row of weapons.
He didn't want to mix this harpy's grave with theirs.
This wasn't its place.
He had no right to impose that.
"Sorry... but I'll just borrow a spot near here, okay," he murmured.
After walking a little further, he found a spot that felt right—under a large tree with thick roots, the soil was soft enough, and it still faced the graveyard from a distance.
Close enough.
But still separate.
"Here..."
Shirou knelt slowly, then carefully lowered the Harpy's body to the ground, leaning it against the tree for a moment.
He straightened the blanket one more time.
His hands trembled slightly, for some reason.
"...Just a moment," he whispered.
Then he raised his right hand.
"Trace... on."
Blue light glowed.
Prana particles gathered, forming a silhouette.
In an instant, a simple iron shovel materialized in his hand.
Its weight was familiar.
Shirou thrust the tip of the shovel into the ground.
Cras.
The first clump of earth was lifted.
He began to dig.
Cras. Cras. Cras.
His movements repeated.
Slow. Consistent.
Brown soil piled up beside the hole that slowly grew deeper.
Sweat began to flow at his temples.
His breath was heavy.
But he didn't stop.
Each swing of the shovel felt like it soothed his chaotic thoughts.
"...I'm strange, aren't I?" he murmured while digging.
"Other adventurers would probably laugh if they saw."
A level four.
Burying a monster.
Not aiming for its magic stone.
Not turning it into materials.
But burying it like a human.
The shovel hit the ground again.
Thump.
"...but if I pretended I didn't see it... that feels more disgusting."
He stopped for a moment, wiping sweat with his sleeve.
Then he glanced towards the shrouded body.
Silent.
Motionless.
As if asleep.
"...At least... this time," he whispered, "you're not alone."
And he resumed digging.
The grave was finally deep enough.
Shirou stood at its edge, his breath slightly ragged, the shovel still in his grip. He turned towards the body wrapped in tattered cloth, then knelt and carefully lifted it again.
He lowered the harpy's remains into the grave slowly, making sure its wings weren't bent harshly, ensuring the shroud remained neatly covering its face. No ritual. No long prayers. Just a silence that swallowed everything.
"Sorry... this is all I can do," he whispered.
He began to fill the grave.
One shovel. Two shovels. Three shovels.
Thump... thump... thump...
Soil fell, covering the simple shroud, bit by bit, until finally the body was no longer visible. No blood. No screams. Just earth returning to earth.
As the last shovel leveled the surface, Shirou stopped.
He stared at the grave for a long time.
Above, the crystal light of the Dungeon's ceiling began to fade. The orange twilight color shifted to a bluish-purple—a sign that night had arrived on the eighteenth floor.
The grave was finished.
Yet it felt... incomplete.
"A tombstone," he murmured.
Shirou got up and searched around the large tree. Soon, he found a dark gray natural stone—not too big, but sturdy enough. He dragged it over with some effort, placing it at the head of the grave.
Then he crouched in front of the stone.
The dim evening crystal light cast long shadows.
His hand projected a small dagger.
"Trace on."
A thin blade appeared.
He stared at the stone surface for a long time.
"...A name..."
Silence.
He didn't know.
Would never know.
Monsters have no names.
At least... never given the chance to have one.
Shirou smiled thinly, bitterly.
"Well then... not a name, then."
He began to carve.
Krek... krek... krek...
Stone fragments fell little by little.
His hands moved slowly, carefully.
Letter by letter.
Finally, a simple sentence was carved into the stone's surface.
Fly high, the sky is yours.
He read it slowly.
"...Yeah," he whispered. "Your place should be in the sky, not in chains."
A small breeze blew.
Fuuuu...
A few bluish-green feathers lay on the ground—feathers that had fallen off when he picked up the body.
Feathers shimmering like peacock feathers.
Beautiful.
Shirou picked them up one by one, brushing off the soil. Then he placed them on the mound, in front of the tombstone.
Like flowers or a small offering.
Simple.
But sincere.
He stood up again.
Stared at the small grave for a long time.
"...Farewell," he said softly.
No answer.
Only the forest.
Only the night.
And a foolish boy is burying a monster like a human.
Shirou didn't leave immediately.
His feet felt heavy, as if something was still holding him there.
He looked back at the small mound of earth before him.
"Is... this enough?" he murmured.
In his chest was a strange feeling, suspended, unfinished.
He had buried the body.
Given it a marker.
Given it its last dignity.
Yet still... something felt lacking.
"After all that she went through..." he whispered. "Tortured, chained, treated like an object..."
Shirou clenched his fist.
"Then... can her soul rest in peace?"
That word suddenly crossed his mind.
Soul.
He fell silent.
"...A monster's soul?" he repeated softly, as if tasting the word.
He didn't know the answer.
No one had ever taught him whether monsters had souls like humans.
Whether after death, they returned to the Dungeon.
Or vanished completely.
Or... were reborn as another monster.
"I don't even know about that," he sighed softly.
But one thing he believed.
In this world, whoever dies—be it human, elf, or other creature—matters of the afterlife are in the hands of the gods in Tenkai.
Reincarnation.
The soul cycle.
Fate after death.
All that is beyond the reach of mortal beings.
Shirou took a deep breath.
He wasn't a religious person.
Never prayed before sleeping.
Never asked for protection from a specific god.
Even to Loki, he rarely truly "pleaded."
But this time... it felt different.
He stepped forward.
Knelt in front of the small grave.
The cold earth pressed against his knees, but he didn't care.
His head bowed.
His hands clasped—stiff, awkward, like someone who didn't know where to start.
"...I don't know who to speak to," he said softly to the night air. "I also don't know which god would listen."
Wind rustled gently through the trees.
No answer.
But Shirou continued.
"But... if there's anyone up there," he said, his voice growing lower, more honest.
"Any god... who happens to hear this fool's prayer..."
He swallowed.
"Plea—" his voice caught for a moment, then he took another breath. "Please... let her soul be reborn as a human."
His hands trembled slightly.
"As an ordinary girl," he continued. "Who can laugh without fear. Who can sleep without chains, Who can walk under the sun without being hunted."
His head bowed further.
"Let her find someone who loves her," he whispered. "Find love... find happiness... things she never got in this life."
Silence.
The ceiling crystals shone softly above.
Shirou clasped his hands tighter.
"And... please," he uttered almost like a confession of sin, "don't let her suffer again."
He remained silent for a long time after that.
No light. No miracle. No divine voice.
Only the night wind.
Only the silent forest.
And a boy praying in the simplest way he knew.
Slowly, Shirou opened his eyes.
He stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees.
Looked at the grave one more time.
"...That's all," he murmured. "That's what I could do."
Then he turned.
His steps were slow, yet the resolve in his chest felt a little calmer.
***
The prayer didn't stop there.
The soft words spoken by Shirou—which even he himself could barely hear—slowly rose from the burial ground, like a warm breath in the cold air.
At first, invisible.
Just a faint ripple in the air.
Then... something shimmered.
A single small feather.
A bluish-green feather, glowing softly like moonlight on water.
A harpy feather.
Somehow, for some reason, it slowly lifted from the grave mound, floating, spinning gently.
Fwoosh...
A soft breeze carried it upward.
Higher.
Higher.
Passing through the canopy of the eighteenth-floor trees.
Passing through the crystals of the Dungeon's ceiling.
Passing through stone, earth, sky, space—as if the boundaries of the mortal world were but a thin curtain to it.
Shirou didn't see it.
He had already walked away.
But the prayer... continued to rise.
Flying straight upward.
Toward where the gods reside.
Toward Tenkai.
✦
Among the expanse of the divine cosmos unreachable by humans, the feather continued to fly.
Not swept away by currents.
Not lost.
As if guided by an unseen hand.
It passed through region after region, palace after palace of the gods.
On a white marble balcony, a dark-skinned goddess with long, black-shimmering hair—Ishtar leaned lazily while playing with a grape in her fingers.
Her eyelids were half-closed.
Then—
"Hmm?"
Her eyes caught a flash of strange color.
Something beautiful.
Something pure.
The feather passed before her face, shimmering like a living jewel.
"Oh? How lovely..."
Ishtar smiled thinly, gracefully reaching out a hand to catch it.
Her fingertips almost touched—
Swoosh.
The feather swerved.
Slipped right through her grasp.
"Eh?"
Ishtar blinked, then chuckled softly.
"Fufu... how amusing. Even prayers reject me now?"
She didn't pursue.
Too troublesome.
But her eyes followed the feather until it vanished in the distance.
✦
Further still.
In a quiet garden filled with eternal twilight light, a goddess with golden-blonde hair sat at a stone table, a quill in her hand.
Brigid.
Sheets of paper were scattered around her, covered in verses of poetry.
She was writing slowly.
"A flame in the mortal heart... hmm... not poetic enough..."
Flaaap...
The bluish-green feather floated slowly over her table.
Her papers rustled.
"Hmm?"
Brigid looked up.
Her eyes softened.
"Oh... a prayer, is it..."
She smiled slightly.
"How beautiful. Who sent you, hmm?"
But she didn't interfere.
Just watched.
The feather continued its journey.
✦
Even in the darkest corner of Tenkai—
where shadows gather, and light is reluctant to visit—
a pair of shining black eyes opened.
Erebus, The God of Darkness.
He leaned on a black throne, his chin resting on his hand.
"Hoh..."
His voice was low, heavy.
"A prayer that pure... is rarely seen."
His eyes followed the small light piercing his domain.
"Into whose hands will you fall...?"
His lips curved thinly.
"Interesting."
Yet even he didn't hinder.
The feather was too... straight.
Too certain.
As if its destination had been set from the very beginning.
✦
And finally—
passing by divine stars.
Passing by rivers of light.
Passing by thousands of godly palaces—
The feather of prayer slowed.
It flew straight.
Towards one direction.
Towards one place.
In the distance—
A majestic palace stood.
Brighter than the others.
More silent.
More... heavy in its aura.
A giant golden gate.
Soaring pillars.
Divine light enveloped its entire domain like an eternal sun.
The feather of prayer slowed.
Spun gently.
Then... floated inside.
Toward the majestic palace of a certain god.
The bluish-green feather floated slowly through the giant golden gate.
No guards stood there. No invisible walls held it back. As if the entire divine palace itself recognized something about the small feather... and silently let it pass.
Fwuush...
It drifted down a long corridor lined with white marble. The floor gleamed like a mirror, reflecting golden light from the ceiling high above, its end unseen. Giant pillars stood in rows on both sides, carved with scenes of warfare—humans slaughtering each other, storms destroying cities, spears piercing soldiers' chests.
This place felt strange. No flower gardens. No sound of lyres or soft music like the dwellings of other gods.
There was only an empty echo... and a faint tension in the air, like the sky before a lightning strike.
The feather kept floating.
Past one room.
Then another.
And one more.
Each door opened by itself with a slow creaking sound—kreeeek—as if the palace were alive, breathing, inviting the small guest deeper inside.
Until finally, it arrived in the main hall.
A gigantic room stretched wide like a battlefield. The ceiling was filled with paintings of raging flames and clashing armies. The walls were adorned with spears, swords, and old shields—not as decoration, but like trophies of victory.
In the middle of the hall, several long-haired spirit girls danced.
Their bodies emitted a soft light. Their bare feet didn't truly touch the floor, moving lightly like flower petals blown by the wind. Soft laughter was heard, the faint tinkling of bells, the rustle of thin cloth.
A dance of entertainment.
A dance of offering.
For a single figure at the end of the room.
He leaned back casually on a large throne, legs crossed, chin resting on his hand. His eyes were half-closed, his lips curved in a thin smile. His expression was like a spectator enjoying a play, like a king killing time.
Destiny was indeed amusing.
Usually, human prayers would flow according to their nature—rage towards the god of war, harvest towards the goddess of fertility, and fishing towards the ruler of the seas.
All followed resonance. Followed affinity. Followed similarity.
But this prayer was different.
A gentle prayer.
A sincere prayer.
A small prayer that merely wished for a single unfortunate soul to be happy...
It was drawn to a place completely unsuited to it.
Not because of its meaning.
But because of a bond far coarser.
A bond of blood.
A bond of killing.
Because the one who prayed had spilled the blood of the owner of this palace... had forced him back to Tenkai.
And that kind of connection, ironically, was stronger than any prayer.
Fwuush...
The feather finally descended slowly, floating right before the throne.
The god opened one eye.
"Hmm?"
He raised a hand. The feather landed lightly on his palm.
The spirits stopped dancing. The hall fell silent.
He stared at the feather for a few seconds, then his smile widened—an amused smile, a curious smile, the smile of someone who had just found an interesting toy.
"Its origin is from below..." he murmured. "From the mortal world."
He sniffed it softly, as if smelling the soul clinging to it.
His eyes gleamed.
"Oh...?"
"So it belongs to that sword brat."
His laugh was low, vibrating. "Heh... heh... heh..."
"So sincere is his prayer. Pleading for happiness... for a monster?"
He twirled the feather between his fingers, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
"Absurd. Truly absurd."
Finally, he leaned back casually on the throne, head tilted back, laughing softly at the hall's ceiling.
"Ahh... Shirou Emiya..."
A mischievous light flashed in his eyes.
"Your prayer... came to me after all."
That god was—Rudra.