Chapter 1: The Lone Survivor
Pain
That was the first sensation that shot through Shirou's nervous system the moment he regained consciousness. A sudden, searing pain that clouded his senses, preventing him from thinking clearly.
He stayed like that for a couple of seconds, in shock, until his brain processed what was happening to his body.
His pupils shrank.
His throat opened to its physical limits.
—Hh... A—AAGH...
The sound came out broken, rough, and torn. It echoed through the charred remains of much of Fuyuki City. Not even the furious crackle of the cursed flames could completely drown out the vestiges of his voice, already withered by the burning smoke and the lamentations of the original Shirou.
His body convulsed, his back curving grotesquely. It was as if his body, in a desperate reflex, was trying to supplant one agony with another, one that perhaps, just perhaps, would be easier to bear.
But his actions, against his wishes, only worsened the pain, keeping Shirou in a vicious cycle that only stopped when his body lost all the energy it had left. The precious residual energy from his reincarnation, the very energy that in all likelihood could have saved him, was lost forever, like a capricious child vomiting food he doesn't like.
W-what...
Fortunately for Shirou, just as nothing good lasts forever, neither does the bad.
His thoughts, though still slow, finally cleared enough
for him to reflect on his situation
I-I'm burning alive... B-but why?
He tried to move his limbs.
Success.
Then his fingers.
Not so much.
M-my fingers... I-I can't feel them anymore.
It hurts...
Pain
A word whose meaning we all claim to know, to have experienced.
But only a few unfortunate ones have truly felt it in all its splendor
There are many types of pain. Physical pain, mental pain, even the
psychological pain one believes they are suffering, but which isn't real
Pain also comes in degrees, from the greatest to the least, and it's logical:
the pain you felt that day in elementary school when you got a paper cut will never be the same as the pain of a kick to the nuts, or that of childbirth
However, it is well known that death by burning, by direct exposure
directly to the raging fire, is one of the worst that exists
Why?
Because it is excruciatingly painful
Did Jeanne d'Arc feel the same thing I feel now?
A curious thought slipped through the crevices of the tired mind of Shirou
But he was wrong
His pain was worse, far worse than that experienced by the famous French heroine in her day. After all, Angra Mainyu doesn't hold the title of "All the World's Evils" for nothing. The flames summoned by this evil god are not only fueled by the oxygen in the air, but also by dark and powerful curses, the kind that feed on the purest hatred and resentment that human evil can produce
The fire that slowly devoured Shirou wasn't just burning his body, it was also eating away at his mind, his memories... Even his soul
It was a sensation that had no name. One second, his existence had weight, texture, a backdrop against which his pain resonated. The next, that backdrop gave way. As if someone had cut the cables holding up the curtain of his life, and now everything—the fear, the fire, the self—floated in an absolute nothingness
His body registered the loss before his mind did. A chill that came from the
bones, opposite to the heat of the flames. A sudden emptiness in his chest, as if an organ whose name he didn't know had been extracted. The agony of the fire was sharp, defined; this was different, a silent detachment, like sand escaping between his fingers
Shirou no longer tried to cling to anything. There was nothing to cling to. Only the eternal, scorching present remained, and the slow, relentless sensation that what was before was coming undone, not into smoke, but into an oblivion so deep that it didn't even leave a recognizable void. It was the perfect annihilation: making the victim forget they ever had anything to lose
Jeanne's agony was only physical. But his? It was also mental, spiritual
So... This is how it all ends. In an unknown place, burned to death...
A single tear, possibly the last one he had left, slid down his cheek.
His eyes, seeing without seeing, focused on a darkened sky
What ugly clouds. They shouldn't be black... Although I don't know what clouds are supposed to look like...
For an instant, one both fleeting and torturous, he wished to see the clear sky, to remember what clouds really looked like. But even that small spark of interest, of longing, was extinguished by the deep loneliness and hopelessness that surrounded his deathbed
Shirou remained still, motionless, suffering in silence with his lost gaze fixed on the sky
However, his gaze couldn't sustain the emptiness of the sky for long. It was drawn downward, toward the true hell
A few meters away, a charred beam had collapsed onto something that was once a bed. Sticking out from the rubble was an arm, tiny and fragile, the hand still clenched in a childish fist around a teddy bear blackened with soot. Beyond, the silhouette of two adults—perhaps parents—merged in a final embrace, their outlines blurred and fused by the extreme heat, forming a single, tragic sculpture of ash and pain
The air didn't just smell of burning. It smelled of caramel. A nauseating sweetness that Shirou, in his confusion, couldn't identify as the smell of human fat evaporating. It was the perfume of mass sacrifice, offered at the hands of a vengeful god who only wished to see all of humanity burn for what they once did to him.
This was not a natural tragedy. It was a purge. An intentional blot on the city's map. And he, Shirou, was a last syllable the fire had not yet finished crossing out.
At some point, both long and short, the flames subsided. They didn't turn to embers, but that fire, which seemed to burn only with the resentment of the dead, calmed its intensity. The heat diminished, the noise did too, and thanks to that, Shirou could hear something other than the sound of the flames.
Footsteps
Weak, distant, hurried
Footsteps that his brain, already surrendered to the hope of a final rest, refused to recognize as those of a person, as those of someone approaching faster and faster, with more urgency, with desperation.
Until they were right beside him and a voice resonated in his ears
—I-I found him... I-I found someone alive...
A few eternal seconds. The footsteps stopped. Shirou waited for the blow of a beam, the final collapse. He didn't expect the hands.
Hands—large, trembling, incredibly gentle despite the urgency—surrounded him. They lifted him from the nest of rubble as if he were blown glass. The contact was a new kind of agony, but also the first glimmer of relief: the warmth of another living being who didn't seek to harm him.
—I found him
The voice wasn't a shout. It was a hoarse whisper, laden with such immense weight that it seemed to shatter the throat of the one uttering it. One last time, Shirou half-opened his eyes, the world a blur of shadows and orange glows
—My God... I found him. Someone... someone alive
The man holding him—his face marked by smoke and an ancient sorrow—looked at him. And in his eyes, Shirou didn't see pity. He saw something infinitely more complex and heart-wrenching: a surrender
It was the look of a general who has lost all his battles, has seen his entire army die, and suddenly finds, on the field of corpses, a single wounded soldier that still breathes. It is not a victory. It is a pardon. An undeserved reprieve against the logic of the universe
—Just one... —the man murmured, and a strange laugh, interrupted by sobs, burst from his chest. It wasn't a laugh of joy, but of released hysteria. Tears traced clean paths on his dirty face—. Out of everyone... only you. I failed. I failed completely. But... but you... you, yes
His grip tightened, not with strength, but with a desperate need. He drew
Shirou to his chest, as if the child's weak heartbeat were a talisman against all his demons
—I will save you—he said, and this time his voice was clear, firm, imbued with a purpose he had lost long ago—. No matter what. No matter how. I will save you In that instant, Shirou understood. The happiness on that face wasn't for him, a child unknown. It was for the act of saving. It was the joy of a castaway clinging to a piece of wood, even though the sea remains infinite. This man needed to save him, as he needed air, because if he didn't, something in him deeper than his bones would turn to dust forever [IMG]
And before the darkness claimed him completely, the last thought of
Shirou was not of fear, nor of pain
It was of a deep and sad envy
How powerful it must be, he thought, to have something to cling to like that. How beautiful and terrible at the same time
Then, the silence.