Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne
Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.
Story Starts
-=&
Chapter 6.1 -
The Tyrant's Last Festival
"Kriffing hells! This is a slave run!" someone shouted from behind him, their voice cracking with terror and disbelief. The words hit Shirou like a physical blow, crystallising the horror of what was unfolding around them. His hands moved with practised precision as he shot another volley of sword-arrows towards a cluster of slavers, the familiar weight of his traced weapons a comfort against the chaos erupting around him.
The sound of repulsors roared overhead as a Mandalorian suddenly jet-packed directly in front of him, the warrior's boots striking the marble with a resounding clang. The armoured figure brought out a vibro-machete, its blade humming with lethal energy, and Shirou couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at the supposed warrior. The Mandalorian's stance spoke of confidence, probably thinking Shirou wasn't suited for close combat—a fatal miscalculation that would cost him dearly.
Without hesitation, Shirou reached behind him, his movements fluid and deliberate as he seemingly pulled out Kanshou and Bakuya from behind him. In reality, he simply traced the married blades just as he had with his sword-arrows, the familiar thrum of prana—well, at least it feels like prana—flowing through his circuits. The weight of the twin swords materialised in his hands, their perfect balance a testament to countless battles fought and won. He could only hope that none of the combatants around him would notice the subtle blue glow of his magecraft, the telltale sign of weapons born from memory and will rather than forged steel—at the very least, he hopes that none who saw shall survive the day.
His thoughts flickered briefly to The Empty Pantry, where he had already sent his employees racing back with urgent instructions. They would be frantically preparing sandwiches, burgers, and pizzas—anything they could manage whilst letting stragglers flood in for protection before sealing the restaurant against the violence spilling through the streets, as his body moved to intercept the Mandalorian's attack.
Not waiting for the armoured warrior to make the first move, Shirou rushed forward with the fluid grace of a seasoned combatant. Bakuya rose to meet the Mandalorian's overhand strike, the clash of blade against vibro-machete sending sparks cascading through the air. The impact reverberated up his arms, but he pressed his advantage, delivering a calculated slice at the warrior's armour with Kanshou. To his surprise, the armour held firm against the Noble Phantasm's edge—even the vibro-machete showed similar resilience. His structural analysis immediately provided the answer: Beskar, the legendary Mandalorian iron, probably composed the entirety of both weapons and armour.
"No, Serin! Veyra—" The desperate cry tore from his throat as his peripheral vision caught the nightmare unfolding behind the Mandalorian. Padmé and her contingent were being dragged bodily towards the freighter now hovering ominously low, its boarding ramps yawning wide like the maw of some mechanical beast. The slavers shoved the young women into the vessel with brutal efficiency, their hands rough and careless as they treated human beings like cargo. Other groups were being herded into a similar spacecraft that suddenly flew in from the north with the same callous disregard for their humanity.
The sight of Padmé's terrified face, of Tsabin's fierce struggle against her captors, of Rabbine's wide-eyed panic—it all crystallised into a single moment of absolute clarity. Something snapped inside Shirou's chest, a cold fury that he recognised from the darkest chapters of his past. Simultaneously, he felt the unmistakable sensation of Arturia's dragon core being unleashed somewhere in the distance, her power washing over the battlefield like a tide of barely-contained destruction.
His movements became sharper, more purposeful as he charged at the Mandalorian before him. Each slash and parry served a dual purpose—to overwhelm his opponent whilst simultaneously manoeuvring him into the perfect position. Step by calculated step, Shirou guided their deadly dance until he achieved the reversal he sought, turning his back to the north so his enhanced vision could catalogue every enemy within striking distance.
"I have created over a thousand blades," he intoned, his voice carrying the weight of countless battles and the authority of one who had walked among legends. This was something he had learned recently through painful trial and experimentation—the ability to invoke specific portions of his aria for targeted magical effects, each word a key to unlock devastating power.
The air itself seemed to shiver with anticipation as another of his sword-arrows suddenly coalesced directly in front of each visible enemy. For a split second that stretched like eternity, their minds struggled to process the impossible sight of gleaming steel materialising from nothing, hovering motionless in the air before them like a promise of swift judgement. Then the blades moved as one, rushing towards each target's exposed neck with the inevitability of falling stars, ending the lives of every slaver within sight in a single, perfectly coordinated strike.
-=&
The cacophony of battle died away like a candle snuffed out, leaving behind an eerie silence that seemed to press against eardrums accustomed to chaos. All eyes—slaver and civilian alike—turned toward two figures advancing with inexorable purpose through the smoke, debris, and scattered bodies.
Arturia and Shirou moved in perfect synchronisation, their footsteps creating a rhythmic counterpoint as they pushed an overturned festival table before them. The heavy plasteel surface scraped across blood-slicked marble with a grinding shriek that set teeth on edge, the sound cutting through the sudden quiet like a blade drawn across stone. Scorch marks from absorbed blaster fire scorched the table's underside, testament to its recent service as improvised armour.
Behind the makeshift shield, Clarent gleamed wetly in Arturia's grip, its blade still dripping with the lives it had claimed. Shirou's hands remained empty but ready, his stance suggesting coiled violence waiting for the perfect moment to spring. The married blades had been placed within his quiver, his bow slung upon his shoulder.
The crowd of captives—perhaps two hundred souls pressed together like cattle—had gone deathly still. A quarter of their number had already been forced into the newly arrived freighter to the north, its boarding ramp extended like an accusatory finger. The original vessel hovered to its left, its hold packed with Padmé's reformist contingent and other unfortunate festival-goers.
Between the two spacecraft, the remaining civilians huddled in terrified clusters, surrounded by armed slavers whose weapons had suddenly lost their certainty.
The slavers themselves seemed caught in collective indecision, their earlier confidence evaporating like morning mist. Those nearest to Arturia and Shirou took involuntary steps backwards, boots scraping against marble as they retreated from the approaching pair. Blasters that had been trained on cowering civilians now wavered, torn between targets.
One slaver—a Rodian with distinctive green scaling—found his voice first. "Stand down!" His Basic carried a Rodese accent thick with barely-concealed panic. "Stand down or we start executing hostages!" The barrel of his blaster swung wildly toward a Twi'lek woman clutching a young child, then to an elderly human man, then to a cluster of teenagers frozen in terror.
As if his words had broken a spell, dozens of weapons snapped into new positions with mechanical precision. No longer aimed at the two advancing figures, the slavers' blasters now formed a ring of death pointed inward at the helpless crowd. The message was brutally clear—one wrong move, and innocent blood would paint the plaza stones.
"That's right, that's right," another voice called out, this one belonging to a human male whose armour bore the scorch marks of recent combat. His blaster remained trained on a young woman in the crowd, finger resting on the trigger. "You back off, let us finish—"
The slaver's words died as Shirou, seemingly at random, brought out his bow with fluid grace and fired directly upward into the open sky. The arrow arced high, climbing towards the glaring sun above the plaza.
"Wha—what are you doing? Stop that!" The human's voice cracked with confusion and rising panic, his weapon wavering between hostage and the inexplicable threat above.
Arturia tensed beside him, clearly uncertain of his plan, while the slavers grew agitated by the seemingly pointless action. Several tracked the arrow's trajectory skyward, distracted by the curious display.
Shirou fired again. Then again. Arrow after arrow streaked upward in rapid succession, each one vanishing at its apex as he dismissed the traced projectiles mid-air. To any observer, it appeared as meaningless provocation—a warrior wasting ammunition on empty sky whilst hostages' lives hung in the balance.
But it was misdirection, sleight of hand performed in front of civilians and slavers alike.
While their eyes followed the visible arrows climbing toward the heavens, Shirou's actual work manifested unseen. High above each slaver's position, traced blades coalesced in absolute silence—hovering motionless, invisible against the sun's glare, waiting. Dozens of sword-arrows, each one positioned with geometric precision above an exposed throat, a vulnerable neck joint, an unprotected skull.
He didn't give a signal. Didn't announce his intent. The blades simply fell.
All at once, every exposed slaver dropped as if their strings had been cut. Projectiles punched through skulls, pierced necks, and found the gaps in armour with surgical accuracy. Bodies crumpled to the marble in a grotesque wave of simultaneous death, their weapons clattering uselessly from lifeless hands.
The silence that followed was absolute—broken only by the wet thud of corpses hitting stone and the terrified gasps of hostages realising they were suddenly, impossibly, free.
"Kriff!" The scream came from the northern freighter's bay door, where a Twi'lek in scarred armour clutched the entrance frame with white-knuckled terror. His earlier bravado had evaporated, replaced by the raw panic of someone who'd just watched his entire ground force die in three seconds. "Vexa, tell yours to lift off now!"
From the southern vessel's hold, a woman's voice crackled over comms: "Already on it!"
"Rynar—" The Twi'lek's voice broke into desperate screaming at his pilot. "Kark it—lift off! Lift off NOW! NOW! NOW!"
Both massive freighters' engines roared to life simultaneously, their repulsorlifts cycling from idle to emergency thrust with a deafening whine. The deck plates beneath them vibrated as tons of durasteel fought against gravity's pull. Bay doors began grinding shut with mechanical inexorability, hydraulics screaming as emergency protocols kicked in.
"Left," Shirou declared.
"Right," Arturia agreed.
Both former heroes moved as one, angling toward where the two massive freighters hovered side by side.
Arturia burst right in a mana-enhanced sprint, her low-heeled pumps barely touching marble as she rocketed toward the rightmost vessel. The vessel had barely lifted three metres off the ground and was accelerating upwards, its bay door three-quarters closed. Without breaking stride, she channeled prana through her legs and leapt.
The jump carried her impossibly high—eight metres up—her petite frame arcing through smoke-filled air like a missile. At the apex of her trajectory, Clarent blazed with dark-violet light as she channelled a precise mana blast. Not the devastating wave she'd used before, but a focused cutting edge that extended the blade's reach tenfold.
The empowered slash caught the right freighter's cockpit like a hot wire through butter. Transparisteel and durasteel parted with a shriek of tortured metal as she carved clean through the vessel's forward section. The cockpit separated from the main hull in a shower of sparks and venting atmosphere, tumbling away as the rest of the freighter lost all control and began listing dangerously.
Meanwhile, Shirou cut left, reinforcing his body with every scrap of prana he could channel, feeling his muscles and bones strengthen beyond human limits. The left freighter mirrored its twin—already eight meters up and accelerating, its bay door now just a two-metre-wide gap of light against darkness.
He ran three steps and launched himself upward with explosive force, the marble cracking beneath his final footfall from the sheer power of his jump. Wind tore at his face as he climbed—five meters, seven, ten—arms outstretched toward that shrinking rectangle of light.
Not going to make it, his mind calculated with cold precision. Too high, too fast—
His body began to descend, gravity reasserting its claim. No!
Mid-fall, Shirou traced Herakles' stone sword-axe beneath his feet—but instead of letting it simply materialise, he imparted an accelerated vector upward as it coalesced. The massive weapon shot skyward like a launched missile with Shirou balanced atop it, his reinforced legs absorbing the sudden acceleration as he rode the conjured platform higher.
Five meters became eight, then ten, then twelve—the traced blade carrying him well above the freighter's hull before he kicked off and dismissed it in the same motion. The sword-axe dissolved back into nothingness as Shirou's arc brought him alongside the rising vessel.
He traced Kanshou and Bakuya mid-flight, immediately biting down on Bakuya's handle to free one hand for what came next.
His fist clutching Kanshou slammed into the freighter's hull plating with a resounding thud, using the impact to arrest his momentum and swing his body inward. His free hand shot out, fingers hooking the cargo bay door's edge just as the hydraulics ground toward their final centimetre of closure.
Reinforced strength straining against mechanical force, Shirou wedged himself into the narrowing gap. Metal screamed in protest as his body forced through the impossible space, shoulder and hip pressing past yielding mechanisms. Then he was inside, rolling forward across the deck plating as the door finally sealed behind him with a pneumatic hiss.
Bakuya freed from his teeth as he rose. Both married blades properly gripped now, singing through the air in perfect sync—black and white arcs crossing like scissors.
Two slavers nearest the entrance never processed the impossible. Kanshou and Bakuya passed through their necks with surgical precision, sharp enough that for one heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the heads separated. Wet finality. Bodies crumpling. Shocked expressions frozen on faces rolling across the deck plating.
The cargo hold fell into stunned silence. Corpse-thuds. Muffled hostage scream too close to the spray. Rabbine passing out from the gory scene.
"Close your eyes," Shirou called to the reformist group—separated from the others, targeted. This wasn't just a slave run. The slave run was the cover.
He didn't wait. Shirou rushed forward, blades singing.
-=&
Numb. Tired. Confused. And guilt—always the guilt, churning through Padmé like a relentless tide as she forced herself to maintain composure. Her hands remained steady as she sorted through donated supplies, but the tremor lived deeper, somewhere in her chest where no one could see it shake her apart from the inside.
At least they'd been able to bathe in rotation with the team. The water had run red at first, diluted blood swirling down the drain—though whether it belonged to victims or perpetrators, she couldn't say. The distinction felt meaningless when scrubbing it from beneath her fingernails.
She worked alongside Governor Sio Bibble now, and that itself felt surreal. The man who'd made his disapproval of her and Tsabin abundantly clear—his resentment over his niece Sasha and Su Yan joining their reformist group simmering beneath every stiff interaction—had shed his usual cold formality like an ill-fitting cloak discarded in crisis. His sharp blue-grey eyes, which typically regarded her with barely concealed irritation, now carried an unexpected softness as he treated her with genuine respect. His normally imperious voice had subdued to gentle efficiency, directing volounteers with the same authority he'd once used to dismiss her concerns in council chambers.
"Stack the thermal blankets separately from the standard ones," he instructed a young volunteer whose hands trembled as she worked. His tone held patience rather than his typical impatience. "The injured will need the warmth more than those in shock."
The crisis had stripped away the personal grievances, leaving only the shared purpose of helping their city recover. He didn't smile at her—that would perhaps be too much to expect—but he also didn't glare. For now, in the face of tragedy, it was enough.
The logistics of tragedy were overwhelming in their mundane necessity. While their group organised relief goods—blankets that felt too thin against Naboo's evening chill, medical supplies that seemed woefully insufficient against the scale of suffering—another team moved through the wreckage with datapads and grim determination. They were documenting the living and the dead.
The scratching of styluses against datapads created an eerily methodical soundtrack to grief. Each mark represented a life accounted for, a family that would receive notification, a person whose fate was no longer unknown. They cross-referenced names with city records, hunting for anyone who might be missing, anyone who might still need help, anyone whose absence hadn't yet been noticed in the confusion.
Mara worked tirelessly nearby, her golden hair dulled with dust and ash, the elegant waves that usually framed her face now matted and tangled. Even in exhaustion, she moved with that natural grace that drew people to her, her warm voice cutting through despair as she directed various relief efforts. Medical personnel from Theed General followed her instructions without question, responding to the quiet authority she wielded through compassion rather than command.
"We need more gauze in section three," Mara called out, her voice steady despite the strain visible in the set of her shoulders.
Right now their station was distributing food donated by The Empty Pantry. The irony wasn't lost on Padmé. Simple meals arrived in insulated containers, still warm, smelling of home and comfort in the midst of devastation. Sandwiches wrapped carefully in flimsy, pizza slices, burgers, and even cookies that someone had taken the time to package individually. Food that spoke of care, of someone understanding that small gestures of normalcy mattered.
Padmé's throat tightened as she spotted the familiar figures entering her peripheral vision.
Shirou and Arturia moved through the aftermath with solemn purpose, their movements careful and deliberate as they carried shrouded forms between them. The covered bodies of the dead, treated with dignity even in tragedy, were transported towards the makeshift morgue, a temporary tent brought in by the volounteers.
They'd been doing this for hours, she realised. Carrying the dead with the same care they'd once used to serve meals at their restaurant. Never rushing, never careless, treating each shrouded form as precious cargo rather than grim necessity.
Her guilt twisted deeper, a knife turning in her chest.
Even after Shirou had successfully saved them from the slavers—no, that phrasing was inadequate. He'd massacred his way through the freighter. Though perhaps that word was unfair, too loaded with judgment she had no right to pass, not after all hope had seemed lost as she'd felt the freighter lift off.
He'd somehow managed to enter the vessel mid-flight. He'd fought through armed criminals to save and protect them, had done what was necessary to prevent them from being sold into slavery in some distant system where no one would ever find them.
But the word still fit. Massacre.
She could still see it with perfect clarity, a memory that would probably never fade, no matter how much she wished it would. The interior of the freighter was painted in violence—blood splattered across bulkheads in arterial sprays, bodies scattered like broken dolls across the deck plating, the metallic reek of death so thick it had made her gag. And standing in the middle of it all was Shirou—his kind face transformed into something alien beneath a mask of multicoloured blood.
She remembered his approach, that careful shuffle forward with his hands partially raised in what should have been a reassuring gesture. His expression had been concerned, gentle even, as if he were approaching frightened animals rather than the people he'd just saved. She remembered him reaching out towards Tsabin, who'd been shackled closest to him, his blood-slick fingers extended to help release the magnetic binders.
And she remembered how they'd all flinched away. All of them. Even Tsabin, who never backed down from anything, who'd faced down corrupt officials and angry mobs with her chin raised in defiance—even she had recoiled from those helpful, gore-covered hands.
The hurt that had flashed across Shirou's face lasted only a moment before being quickly covered, but Padmé had seen it.
Instead of showing that hurt, he'd smiled. And Maker help her, that had been worse—that smile stretching across a face covered in other people's blood, teeth showing white against the crimson and blue and green. It was a grotesque parody of his usual warm expression, transformed into something that belonged in nightmares.
"I'm sorry," he'd said, his voice rough from exertion or emotion or both. "I'm sorry you had to see this. Let me get these off you."
His hands had been steady as he'd released each set of binders, working his way through their group with methodical efficiency even as they'd all pressed themselves back against the bulkheads, trying to maintain distance from his gore-covered form. He'd respected that unspoken request for space, never moving closer than necessary, never forcing his help upon them despite their obvious need for it.
When he'd finished, he'd bowed. Actually bowed—as though offering a formal apology for the violence he'd committed on their behalf—before turning and walking back across the deck plating towards the exit. His footsteps had left bloody prints across the metal, a trail of death following him out of the cargo hold.
Then Padmé had seen Arturia waiting outside, positioned near the boarding ramp. The blonde had been equally covered in gore, her black and white service uniform transformed into something unrecognisable beneath layers of dried blood. But her face had brightened when she'd seen them emerge safely—genuine relief and joy changing her features despite the horror coating her skin.
That expression had lasted until she'd registered their faces. Until she'd seen the way they all flinched back from her approach, the way even Padmé—who'd shared meals and conversation and comfortable silences with her—had taken an involuntary step backwards.
The hurt in Arturia's golden eyes had been profound, a wound that cut deeper than any blade. Her small frame, which had always seemed refined rather than threatening despite her strength, had somehow diminished further in that moment. She'd looked almost fragile, vulnerable in a way that contrasted grotesquely with the violence she was painted in.
Shirou had approached her then, moving with careful deliberation as he'd placed both hands on her shoulders. He'd leaned close, speaking words that Padmé couldn't hear from her position, his voice low and urgent. Whatever he'd said had made Arturia's face transform—that hurt crystallising into something harder, more resolved. She'd nodded once, sharp and decisive, before turning to give Padmé and her group a curt nod of acknowledgement.
Then they'd both turned and walked away, moving through the crowd of rescued hostages. Padmé had watched them go, noticing how the people of Naboo gave them a wide berth despite their role as saviours. Civilians who'd been freed from slavery pressed themselves back to let the blood-covered pair pass, grateful but afraid, rescued but repulsed.
Heroes and monsters, all at once. Saviours covered in the proof of their violence.
Marching steps suddenly echoed throughout the plaza, pulling Padmé out of her thoughts as everyone's hearts visibly sank. The threat mirrored the chaos from that afternoon—they were surrounded, the Royal Naboo Protection Corps and Theed Honour Guard forming a perimeter around the relief effort.
One man stepped forward, his blaster rifle secured against its strap as he fished out a datapad. His voice rang loud in the uneasy silence of the crowd.
"ATTENTION, CITIZENS OF THEED:
By order of His Majesty King Ars Veruna, Naboo is now under a state of planetary emergency. A curfew is in effect from 2000 to 0600 hours. All media communications are subject to royal oversight.
Warrants have been issued for the arrest of Shirou Emiya and Arturia Pendragon on charges including mass murder, terrorism, and conspiracy against the Crown. These individuals are responsible for the deaths of—"
The guard's voice hitched. His face went pale as he stared at the datapad, clearly struggling to process the number he was being ordered to read aloud.
"The—these individuals are responsible for the deaths of one hundred and twenty-three royal security personnel who were deployed to protect citizens during today's festivities." His eyes suddenly darted around the silent crowd, fear creeping into his voice.
"De—despite appearances, these locals are not heroes but dangerous vigilantes whose extreme violence endangered civilian lives. They are to be apprehended immediately.
Any citizen harbouring or assisting these criminals will face prosecution. A reward of fifty thousand credits is offered for information leading to their capture.
Return to your homes. Comply with all security personnel. Your safety depends upon your cooperation.
BY ORDER OF THE KING."
The tension in the air shifted—thick, electric—as the Guard's words hung over the plaza like a suffocating shroud. Padmé felt the change ripple through the crowd—a collective intake of breath, the subtle straightening of spines, the way shoulders squared despite trembling hands. She could taste the metallic tang of fear mixed with something far more dangerous: righteous fury.
A murmur began somewhere near the fountain, low and rumbling like distant thunder. Then another voice joined it, and another, until the sound swelled into something that made the stones beneath her feet seem to vibrate. These people had been there. They had seen the first volley of blaster fire tear through innocent festival-goers. They had witnessed the supposed royal guards turning their weapons on unarmed citizens without provocation or warning.
And they had also seen two strangers—these supposed "dangerous vigilantes"—throw themselves into harm's way without hesitation, asking for nothing in return. Even now, the two volunteers were still organising aid stations, still distributing food to those who had lost everything, helping carry the deceased, still tending to the wounded with supplies donated freely by neighbours who barely knew each other's names.
Padmé could feel their anger building like pressure in a sealed vessel, ready to explode. As jeers rose, the Protection Corps and Honour Guard tensed, hands tightening on their plasma rifles as the crowd began to turn.
But before anything spilt over, two individuals walked forward, arms raised in surrender.
"We submit to your authority—willingly and without resistance."
And then the floodgates opened. The crowd erupted—not in violence, but in voices. Protests rang out from every direction, a cacophony of outrage against injustice so blatant it bordered on obscene.
Two members of the Honour Guard panicked, raising their rifles toward the surging crowd. Before anyone could process the threat, Shirou and Arturia moved—faster than thought, their hands closing around the barrels of each weapon and forcing them down with inexorable strength.
The guards' eyes went wide with shock and terror. When Shirou and Arturia released the weapons, both barrels were visibly bent, warped metal testimony to strength that transcended human limits.
The crowd fell silent, not from fear, but from awe.
Arturia's golden eyes swept across the civilians with one imperious look—not threatening, but commanding in a way that brooked no argument. The anger that had been building found no outlet; instead, people straightened, nodded, recognising something primal in that gaze. She acknowledged them with a slight nod, as if they'd passed some unspoken test, before turning her attention back to the trembling guards.
Under their combined gaze, the Honour Guard clutching the arrest warrant trembled as he fumbled for binders.
"You need not bind us—we've already submitted willingly," Arturia stated, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "If you're afraid, have your men point their blasters at us." She paused, letting that sink in. "Now escort us to tonight's... hospitality. And you shall not separate me from my partner."
"Yes, ma'am!" The guard bowed instinctively—decades of training responding to that command presence despite the absurdity of it all.
As the pair was escorted toward the palace, Padmé watched them walk with heads held high—prisoners who somehow looked more regal than the king who'd ordered their arrest.
Her hands had stopped trembling. The guilt remained—and the trauma would not fade quickly—but something had crystallised in that moment: Arturia commanding silence with a look; Both bending steel yet choosing submission over violence.
Power wasn't about force. It was about choosing when to use it and when to yield it.
Veruna had the crown, the guards, the law's authority. But standing amid the wreckage of his lies, Padmé realised one thing: he didn't have the people—not anymore.
And on Naboo, that was going to matter.
-=&
End