Chapter 11
The dojo smelled faintly of polished wood and old sweat, a testament to countless training sessions held over the years. Shirō adjusted her stance, gripping the shinai in her hands. Across from her, Rin cracked her knuckles, already looking irritated.
"I still don't understand why we're doing this," Rin muttered, rolling her shoulders. "You have Excalibur, you know."
Shirō sighed. "And? That doesn't mean I don't need to practice."
"You literally swing that thing around like a natural-born warrior. What exactly do you need practice for?"
Shirō frowned. "I don't know. Maybe so I don't get my ass kicked in close combat?"
Rin huffed, clearly unimpressed. "Fine, fine. Let's just get this over with." She picked up her own shinai, tapping the floor twice before raising it into position. "You're paying for dinner if I win."
"Yeah, yeah." Shirō took her stance.
Then Rin moved.
The strike was fast—faster than Shirō expected—but her body reacted instinctively. She twisted her wrist, parrying the attack, the sharp crack of wood-on-wood echoing in the empty dojo.
Rin grinned. "Not bad."
Shirō scowled. "I was trained, you know."
"I know," Rin said, already bringing her sword back for another strike. "It's just fun seeing you squirm."
This time, she feinted—a flick of the wrist, a change in trajectory—aiming for Shirō's ribs instead of her head. Shirō barely managed to twist out of the way, countering with a sharp thrust. Rin sidestepped it easily, bringing her shinai down toward Shirō's shoulder.
Too slow.
Shirō stepped into the attack, raising her shinai in a diagonal block. The force rattled her arms, but she held firm, twisting to push Rin's weapon away. The moment she created an opening, she lashed out—swift, precise—striking toward Rin's side.
But Rin was already moving. She ducked low, twisting to the side as the attack barely grazed her sleeve. Her foot shot out, catching Shirō's ankle just enough to make her stumble.
Shirō cursed, regaining her footing just in time to block another strike.
Rin smirked. "You fight like a reckless idiot."
Shirō growled. "You fight like a smug bastard."
"Thanks!"
Their weapons clashed again, the sound filling the dojo as they fell into a rhythm. Strikes and parries, dodges and counters—Shirō could feel the burn in her muscles, but she refused to let up. Rin was good, obviously. Her movements were sharp, calculated, and she used her agility to full advantage.
But Shirō was relentless. She pushed forward, forcing Rin on the defensive, her strikes growing sharper, faster. Her body moved on instinct, the years of training she barely acknowledged now coming to the surface.
And then, finally—
She saw an opening.
With one swift movement, Shirō knocked Rin's shinai aside and lunged forward, pressing the tip of her own weapon against Rin's stomach.
A pause.
Then—
"Ow," Rin groaned, stepping back. "Alright, alright, you win."
Shirō smirked. "So, you're paying for dinner?"
Rin scowled, rubbing her side. "Oh, shut up. That last strike was dirty."
"No, it was smart."
"Same thing."
Shirō grinned, resting the shinai on her shoulder. "Come on, admit it. I'm getting better."
Rin rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I guess I should be terrified of your almighty shinai skills."
Shirō snorted. "You should be. Next time, I'll use Excalibur."
Rin paled. "Oh, hell no. We're not wrecking another training ground."
Shirō just laughed.
[—(/-\)—]
The scent of sizzling garlic and grilled meat filled the Emiya kitchen, an aroma so familiar it tugged at something in Shirō's brain. She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as Archer moved with precision, chopping vegetables with the same efficiency he used to fire arrows.
Rin sat at the table, drumming her fingers against the wood. "So… why are you cooking?"
Archer didn't even look up as he tossed onions into the pan. "Because someone has to."
Shirō narrowed her eyes. There was something off about this. It wasn't just that Archer was cooking—it was how he was cooking. Every movement, every choice of ingredient, even the way he tasted the broth with a flick of the spoon…
It's exactly the same as how I cook.
She stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. "What are you making?"
"Curry."
Shirō blinked. "I was going to make curry."
Rin snorted. "What, are you two sharing a brain cell now?"
Shirō ignored her, watching as Archer plated the dish. The way he arranged the rice, the way he garnished it with a little bit of parsley—exactly like she would.
"...Why do you cook like me?" Shirō finally asked, suspicion creeping into her voice.
Archer turned, meeting her gaze with a blank stare. Then, with the smuggest smirk imaginable, he simply said—
"Maybe you cook like me."
Silence.
Then—
Rin burst out laughing. "Oh my god, Shirō, is he implying—"
Shirō scowled. "Shut up."
Archer just continued setting the table, completely unbothered, as Shirō glared at him like he'd personally offended her entire existence. The worst part? The curry smelled amazing.
And that only made her more suspicious.
[—(/-\)—]
Illya sat on the edge of the stone railing, her small feet swinging back and forth as she stared into the darkened horizon. The Einzbern estate loomed behind her, cold and distant, but she hardly cared. She was angry. Very angry.
That night—that night—she had almost caught him. Or was it her now? Shirō Emiya had changed, and Illya wasn't quite sure what to call her anymore. Big Brother? Big Sister? Whatever. It didn't matter. The point was, she had slipped away, escaping just when Illya had her exactly where she wanted.
Illya's lips curled into a pout. That wasn't how things were supposed to go. Shirō was supposed to be hers. To break. To shatter. To suffer as she had suffered.
Berserker stood beside her, a silent, hulking shadow, his breath like a distant storm. He didn't understand her frustration, of course. He barely understood anything beyond fighting, killing, obeying. But that was fine. He didn't need to understand.
Because today—today—she would not fail.
Today, she would find Shirō.
And she would make sure she died slowly.
[—(/-\)—]
Shirō barely had time to process what just happened. One moment, she was having a perfectly good dream—something about a nice warm kotatsu, maybe some taiyaki—and the next, her entire bedroom exploded.
Wood, debris, and the faint scent of scorched tatami filled the air. Where she had been lying just seconds ago was now a crater, her futon torn apart by the sheer force of the attack.
She gasped, feeling an unfamiliar grip around her waist. Then she realized—she wasn't on her bed anymore.
She was in someone's arms.
She snapped her head up and came face-to-face with Archer.
Her face twisted in horror. "Are you trying to kidnap me?!"
Archer's eye twitched, his face contorting as if she had personally insulted his entire lineage. "Kidnap you?! Don't flatter yourself! I just saved your idiotic life!"
Shirō squirmed, pushing against him. "Put me down!"
"With pleasure," Archer grumbled, unceremoniously dropping her onto the floor.
Shirō landed with a grunt, just in time for a familiar, childish giggle to ring out.
"Big Sister, are you ready to die?"
A cold shiver ran down her spine.
Big Sister?
She turned her head, and there, standing amidst the wreckage of what had once been her bedroom wall, was Illya.
The tiny girl stood confidently, her red eyes gleaming with amusement. And beside her, hulking and monstrous, was Berserker.
The massive Servant loomed like an unmovable force, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. He barely seemed fazed by the destruction he had just caused—because, to him, it was nothing. A minor effort.
Shirō swallowed hard.
She had fought things tonight—monsters in the darkness, chains, magic users who could change their forms—but this? This was different.
This was a nightmare.
Archer sighed, rubbing his temple. "Great. And here I thought we'd get at least one peaceful night."
Shirō, still trying to process the Big Sister comment, finally snapped, "Now hold on a second! Since when am I Big Sister?!"
Illya's grin widened. "Well, I was calling you Big Brother before, but since you're a girl now…"
Shirō opened her mouth, then closed it.
…Fair.
Not that it mattered right now!
Because Illya was very much trying to murder her.
And she had brought a giant, indestructible monster to do it.
TBC