Neither Shirou nor Kurono spoke as they ate beneath the shroud of dark leaves. The quiet between them wasn't awkward—it was necessary, like the silence that falls between verses in a song. They chewed thoughtfully, letting the weight of their escape settle into their bones.
The forest whispered around them, ancient and unknowable, but Shirou's thoughts had already drifted far beyond the trees.
After setting down the charred bones of the bird, he pressed his back against the gnarled trunk and closed his eyes. A breath. Then—Hawk Eyes.
The spell bloomed like sunlight behind his eyelids. When they opened again, his irises shimmered faintly with golden light, and the world sharpened into crystal. He could see five miles in every direction—every rock, every flickering shadow between swaying branches, every twitching squirrel and fluttering moth. It was as if the world had become a map, and he its silent observer.
This was one of his most reliable spells—simple in concept, priceless in execution. While others flung fire or summoned storms, Shirou preferred to see. To understand.
But tonight, even that clarity couldn't pierce the haze in his mind.
He scanned the perimeter once more, cautious and methodical, before lowering the spell. The golden glow faded from his eyes, and he was Shirou again—just Shirou.
He leaned his head back, staring at a strip of moonlight breaking through the branches above. He had planned to learn the Overseer spell—a technique that would allow him to project magical sight into multiple directions and dimensions simultaneously. The sort of spell that could turn him from prey into predator, and help him carve paths where none existed.
But that plan, like so many others, now lay in ruin—postponed indefinitely.
Dimensional travel… It wasn't something just any mage could tamper with. It lay in the realm of sages and scholars, those who had spent lifetimes threading through the fabric of reality itself. For Shirou to find such a person—and convince them to help—would be a miracle.
That left only one real hope.
Rin. Illya. Sakura.
He could still picture their faces, even in the darkness—Rin's fire, Illya's eerie brilliance, Sakura's quiet strength. Each of them a prodigy, connected to ancient families, gifted in ways he could never truly match.
They'll come for me, he thought, not as a dream—but as a truth. If anyone could tear through time and space to reach him, it was them.
And yet, the thought didn't sting.
Shirou didn't flinch at the idea of needing rescue, nor did he let his pride twist itself into bitterness. Magic had always come to him like a song learned too late—he could hum the tune, but never quite master the melody.
That was fine.
Strength came in many forms. And right now, his strength lay in enduring—in guiding Kurono, staying alive, outthinking those who hunted him, and surviving long enough for hope to arrive.
He would wait. Fight. Adapt.
-------------------
From his perch among the ancient boughs, Shirou swept his gaze over the landscape sprawled beneath the twilight sky. The mountain range rose to the west like jagged sentinels, casting long shadows across the dense carpet of green. A silver thread of river shimmered in the fading light, winding its way through the trees like a ribbon lost in a dream. A dirt road snaked lazily near its bank—quiet, seemingly undisturbed. Birds sang from the canopy, and small beasts darted through the underbrush, rustling leaves and stirring the hush of evening.
It wasn't teeming with monsters—at least not the sort he'd seen in the blood-stained reports from distant lands. Still, this was the Ark Continent. A place where magic ran wild beneath the soil and terrible creatures were known to roam. Yet here, so near to the facility he'd escaped from, it was… tame.
Too tame.
The beasts he saw were weak things—herbivorous magical creatures, docile mountain cats, and half-feral fox-hounds. Shirou's lips thinned into a line.
They've cleared it, he thought. Deliberately. A quiet perimeter of safety surrounding the lab, free of unpredictable threats. It made sense. And it meant one thing—they were watching this place. Controlling it.
Even now, surrounded by such beauty, his thoughts strayed—not to escape, not to vengeance,—but to them.
His mind flashed with images like the pages of a treasured photo album. Rin's scowl softened by affection. Illya's mischievous grin. Sakura's quiet strength, her hand slipping into his when she thought no one was watching.
'I hope they're safe… not hurt, not worried.'
Even now, on the run and alone in a hostile world, Shirou's first thought was for them. Not for his freedom, nor for vengeance, but for their well-being. For the warmth of their voices. The knowledge that someone, somewhere, might be holding onto hope for him.
He sighed and let his eyes drift shut for a moment. The air was cool up here, sharp with pine and distant water. The branch beneath him creaked gently but held his weight.
What now? The question floated through his mind like a leaf on the wind.
This place was likely under the control of that organization. That much was certain. And however they had managed to tear open the boundary between worlds to bring him here—it wouldn't have been cheap. Or simple.
He would keep a watch for dimensional magic, artifacts, anything with even a trace of that rare, forbidden energy. If such a thing existed nearby, it could be his way back.
But for now…
He breathed in deeply, and let the breath settle into him like an old friend.
His life back home had been busy—almost absurdly so. Fighting during the nights, schoolwork in the morning, training in the afternoons, and somehow, miraculously, stealing time for those precious, awkward, joyful dates. He had lived a double life with the dedication of a monk and the heart of a dreamer.
But he had been happy. Truly happy. He had outgrown the guilt that had clung to him like chains. He no longer lived to repay a debt to the dead—but to protect the living.
He had purpose.
And now, in this strange world, his purpose hadn't changed.
I may be alone, he thought, opening his eyes again. But I won't sit idle. I won't let them hurt others like they tried to hurt me.
He would find shelter. Information. Allies. He was no fool—alone, he didn't stand a chance. But give him a foothold, give him one spark of resistance, and Shirou would ignite it into a flame.
Changing the world—he had never sought it. But if that's what it took to stop them, then he would. He would not stand idle in the face of injustice. Not when he had the power to act. Not when others might be suffering the same fate.
He didn't know how many had been summoned. Didn't know how many had died, or how many minds had been broken and twisted into obedience.
But he would find out.
---------------------
Kurono lay sprawled across the thick tree branch, staring up at the canopy above. The sky had dimmed into a dusky purple, streaked with the gold of a vanishing sun. The leaves rustled gently in the breeze, their movements like a whisper, soft and comforting. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, and something small scurried across a branch, unseen.
But Kurono didn't hear any of it.
His body felt like it was made of broken metal—scraped together, welded anew, then torn apart again. Every muscle ached, every joint protested. The power humming inside him was unfamiliar, like foreign blood had been poured into his veins. There was strength, yes—terrifying, unnatural strength—but it felt like wearing someone else's skin.
Incomplete.
That was the word the scientists had used. The final stage of his transformation had been interrupted. He was left suspended—half-finished, half-human, like a bridge that stopped halfway across a chasm.
But none of that weighed as heavily on him as the memories did.
He could still hear her voice—soft, trembling, full of something so raw it made his heart twist.
"I love you…"
That was the last thing he had heard before the world had gone dark.
No fanfare. No warning. One moment, he was standing beneath a cloudy sky, her hand slipping into his, her words barely whispered above the wind.
The next, he was gone.
Ripped from everything. From her. From his world. Thrown into a nightmare of steel needles, pain, and silence. Where names were taken, identities erased, and screams meant nothing.
What happened to her? The thought burned like acid in his chest. What happened after I vanished?
Did she think he'd run away?
Did his family search for him? Did his friends? Were they safe?
His sister.
Kurono's brow furrowed. A month before his own disappearance, she had vanished too. No calls. No letters. No trace.
At the time, everyone had simply accepted it. She was an adult. Independent. Capable. Maybe she had left for a job overseas, or maybe she'd just wanted some space.
But now…?
Kurono clenched his fists so tightly the bark beneath him cracked.
Was she summoned too? The question haunted him like a ghost, twisting through every thought.
How would he find her? How would he even begin to search in a world like this, where names and faces meant nothing and every path might lead to a trap?
He had no magic. No map. No idea of the people or forces that ruled this land.
The fear crept in slowly. Softly. Like a shadow stretching with the setting sun.
What if I never see them again?
A knot formed in his throat.
For the first time since escaping the lab, Kurono let himself feel it—not just the confusion or the anger—but the grief. The sheer, soul-splitting terror of being alone.
But he wasn't entirely alone.
He turned his head slightly, enough to glance at the figure sitting a few branches away—silent, unmoving, his eyes glowing faintly as he surveyed the horizon.
Shirou.
There was something steady about him, something almost absurdly normal. Like he belonged on a school rooftop at sunset, not in the middle of a magical wilderness. He had the air of someone who had seen—not just monsters, but people—and had learned how to survive without losing himself.
Shirou had saved him. Dragged him out of that cell, carried him when he couldn't walk, fought when Kurono couldn't even lift his arms.
There were no words for that kind of gratitude. No simple thank you that could balance the scale.
If we had met back home, Kurono thought, I would've probably geeked out. Followed him around. Asked for his autograph or something stupid like that.
But now?
Now he couldn't afford to be a fan. He couldn't afford to be a kid.
Not after what had been done to him.
Not after what he had seen.
Could he ever be normal again? Could he ever sleep without waking in a cold sweat, wondering if the needle was coming, if the door would swing open and the monsters in white coats would return?
He didn't know.
He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
But tonight, for the first time since waking in that sterile, cursed room, he wasn't alone.
And that—however faint the flame—was enough to hold back the dark.
"Don't let your worries bring you down. Focus on what you can do, not what's out of your control. I'll do my best to guide you," Shirou said softly, his voice like a balm in the quiet twilight. The words weren't grand. They weren't dramatic. But they were enough.
His gaze shifted from the dusky skyline to the boy sitting across from him—Kurono, hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around himself like he was trying to hold the pieces together. His dark hair hung low, shadowing his face, but Shirou didn't need to see his expression to know the storm that raged inside.
Kurono wasn't like him.
He wasn't forged in fire or tempered by magical battles. He was an ordinary teenager—snatched away from everything familiar, mutilated in mind and body, and tossed into a world that didn't care whether he lived or died.
Yet somehow, he'd survived.
That alone, Shirou thought, made him remarkable.
The Priest's words from earlier still echoed in his memory—clinical and cold, as though recounting the torment of another person, not the boy beside him. Subject K-72: incomplete evolution; pain thresholds exceeded; psyche compromised; survival probability 61%.
But Kurono had beaten the odds. Bruised and fractured, yes. But alive.
And that mattered.
Shirou took a quiet step forward, boots pressing into the soft earth, and stopped just a few paces from him. He could see now—Kurono's eyes, shimmering, struggling to hold back something heavier than mere sadness.
Their eyes met.
Shirou didn't speak at first. He let the silence linger, soft and respectful. The kind that filled rooms after funerals or just before someone said the words they'd been too afraid to utter.
"It's alright to cry," Shirou said gently. "Let it all out. I'm here for you."
Kurono's lips parted, as if to respond, but no sound came. His breath caught. A tremble worked its way from his shoulders to his fingers. When Shirou stepped closer and placed a firm, steady hand on his shoulder, the dam finally broke.
Tears came.
Not in sobs, but in waves—silent and shaking, like something ancient had clawed its way out of him. And then the words came too. Bitter, broken, whispered through clenched teeth—curses, regrets, prayers to immortals who weren't listening. Every unshed tear from the lab. Every scream he'd swallowed.
Shirou didn't interrupt. He simply stood beside him, letting the boy's sorrow pour out under the fading sun, like blood from a wound that had been closed too long.
When Kurono's strength gave out, he slumped forward and fell into a light, dreamless sleep against the moss-covered roots of the tree. His breathing steadied. His expression eased, as though sleep had finally given him the mercy he needed.
Shirou adjusted the boy's posture gently, placing his own cloak over him. He didn't know what dreams would come, or if they would be nightmares. But at least tonight, he wouldn't be alone when he faced them.
Then he turned, standing watch beneath the darkening sky.
It would've helped tremendously to have summons—a few spirits or familiars to scout the woods, maybe a phantom wolf or an air elemental. But Shirou had never had the time, nor the affinity, for that kind of magic. His focus had always been elsewhere.
And thankfully, Avalon—the sheath of Excalibur hidden within him—made up for what he lacked.
The ancient relic pulsed quietly, hidden beneath his skin and soul, always there, always watching. It mended his wounds, dulled his fatigue, and gave his body that unnerving, miraculous vitality. It was Avalon's presence that allowed him to project noble phantasms—mystical weapons from legends long forgotten—and even, on rare occasions, form divine constructs like Excalibur itself.
They weren't the originals, of course. Merely echoes. Shadows.
But even shadows of kings were enough to make tyrants tremble.
Against ordinary humans or even high-tier mages, Shirou could stand alone.
Still… he didn't plan to. Not this time.
This world had its darkness. And wherever there was darkness, there would always be those trying to drag others into it.
Shirou intended to be the light that held them back.
But tonight, his duty was simpler: to let a broken boy rest.