Tuesday, November 28, 19XX, Budapest, Hungary, 18:21 PM
The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a muted golden hue upon the city of Budapest. The air held a crisp bite, a testament to the encroaching winter. The trees, once adorned in vibrant green, now stood bare, their leaves a mosaic of russet and ochre. Each step along the cobblestone streets echoed with a satisfying crunch—the remnants of autumn's decay underfoot.
A symphony of contrasts played out in the bustling thoroughfares. The chilly wind tugged at scarves and coats, coaxing the last vestiges of warmth from passersby. Their hurried footsteps, a staccato rhythm, mingled with the gentle rustle of fallen leaves. The city's pulse thrived—a harmonious blend of nature and civilization.
Hungary's citizens, resolute and purposeful, navigated the labyrinthine alleys. Each face told a story: furrowed brows, determined gazes, and the occasional fleeting smile. Ordinary lives unfolded against the backdrop of architectural marvels. Tourists, wide-eyed and camera-clad, captured the essence of Budapest—the grandeur of Gothic spires, the intricate detailing of Baroque facades. They immortalized history in pixels, their shutters clicking in reverence.
Street vendors, their makeshift stalls adorned with steaming pots and sizzling griddles, beckoned hungry patrons. The aroma of spicy paprika danced in the air, intermingling with the sweet allure of freshly baked pastries. Locals and visitors alike indulged in this sensory feast, their senses heightened by the juxtaposition of flavors.
And then there was me. Chosen, perhaps by fate or design, to complete an impossible task. Who were "they"? The answer lay hidden in the shadows, waiting me to unfurl its secrets. For now, I remained an observer—an enigma amidst the ordinary—a silent witness to the ebb and flow of life in the Budapest that was not mine.
Hungary, Budapest, Several Hours Earlier
The city stirred with its usual rhythm—a symphony of mundane existence. For me, it was a day like any other, yet fate had woven its threads, elevating the ordinary to something more.
Promotion—a word that hung in the air, both unexpected and uninvited. The fast-food joint, where I had once been a face lost in the crowd, now bore my nameplate: Manager. A role thrust upon me, like a pawn moved across a chessboard. My ascent was neither celebrated nor anticipated; I was but a cog in the relentless machinery of commerce.
I surveyed my reflection in the restroom mirror—a face etched with disbelief. The tie, a noose of responsibility, clung to my collar. I adjusted it, as if straightening my life's course. My hair, meticulously styled, whispered professionalism. Flawless? No, merely functional—a far cry from the high school girl primping in locker room mirrors.
The steel name tag, embossed with authority, clung to my shirt. Manager—a title that carried weight, yet felt insubstantial. Outside, patrons savored their meals, blissfully unaware of my newfound station. The staff, diligent and synchronized, orchestrated the dance of service. Their contented expressions mirrored the satisfaction of a well-cooked burger or a perfectly salted fry.
And so, I stepped into my workspace—an office adorned with paperwork, a mountain to conquer. Each form, a testament to bureaucracy, awaited my scrutiny. The clock ticked, and I settled into my chair—the throne of a reluctant monarch. The hum of fluorescent lights accompanied my thoughts, drowning out the distant chatter of customers.
"At least I get paid enough for this crap," I mused. The ledger balanced, but ambition stirred. The future beckoned—an uncharted menu of possibilities. I would not linger on the past, nor bemoan its passing. Instead, I would wield my steel name tag like a scepter, navigating the labyrinth of fryers and registers.
For in this ordinary day, I was pushed to serve more than just burgers and fries.
Hungary, Budapest, Late Evening
The wooden desk cradled my weariness, its surface worn by countless hours of labor. The paperwork—meticulously completed—now lay dormant, awaiting its fate in the archives. My eyelids, heavy as lead, surrendered to gravity, and I drifted into the embrace of sleep.
And then, the ordinary unraveled.
A dream within wakefulness, a paradox that defied the boundaries of slumber. I found myself suspended—a mere wisp of consciousness—above the earthly realm. The cozy desk, the mundane office—all dissolved into the ether. The universe beckoned, its vastness unfurling like an ancient tapestry.
It was a cosmic expanse, a symphony of stardust and void. I floated, untethered, amidst the celestial ballet. Stars winked, galaxies pirouetted, and black holes whispered secrets. Was this the dreamer's privilege—to witness the grandeur of existence while still anchored to corporeal form?
Fear and awe danced within me. Fear—the primal instinct of a finite mind confronting infinity. Awe—the reverence reserved for gods and galaxies alike. The universe sprawled, an artist's canvas splashed with hues beyond imagination. I strained to comprehend its scale, its majesty.
Where was I? A question lost in the cosmic hum. The veil between realms thinned, and I stood at the precipice of revelation. Was this a dream? The realism defied reason, yet doubt lingered. Perhaps I was a wanderer in the astral plane, a traveler unshackled by flesh.
And there it was—the cosmic light. A beacon, pulsing with ancient wisdom. I almost missed it, ensnared by the grandeur. Almost. But as I turned, its radiance bathed me—an initiation, a communion. What secrets did it hold? What whispered truths awaited my awakening?
In that suspended moment, I vowed to remember. For even as the dream wove its ephemeral threads, I sensed a purpose—a quest beyond paperwork and managerial titles. The universe had chosen me, and I, in turn, would seek answers among the constellations.
And so, I lingered—a dreamer awake, a wanderer lost, and a witness to the cosmic light.
Unfathomable particles, drifting like cosmic dandelion seeds, coalesced into a singular speck—a man suspended above the Swirl. His existence mirrored the ebb and flow of water vapor, gathering and dispersing in celestial currents.
Knowledge, forbidden and weighty, clung to those particles. Secrets woven into the fabric of existence—insights that transcended mortal comprehension. Yet this average human, an unwitting vessel, absorbed them with casual ease. His face bore the duality of understanding and fear—an alchemical blend of mortal and cosmic awareness.
The Swirl—the very loom of creation—rested upon the remnants of Low Elder Gods. Scarred by the War, their divine forms had unraveled, shedding layers of existence. Reduced to cosmic echoes, they became the Root, the genesis of life and wisdom. Their bodies, once celestial, now cradled worlds within their decayed embrace—an infinite cosmic framework defying finite boundaries.
Contradiction, etched into the cosmic blueprint. How could infinity nestle within the confines of form? Yet here it was—a paradox woven by celestial hands. The twin gods, their souls and minds decayed, clung to primal urges. One embodied human hatred and life—the other, knowledge and preservation. Perspectives diverged, yet purpose converged—their collaboration a cosmic dance.
And so, they birthed worlds—humans and supernatural beings alike. From the remnants of gods, life sprouted—a fragile tapestry stitched with stardust and primordial longing. The man above the Swirl, chosen or cursed, stood at the nexus of creation. His purpose? To safeguard the World—to honor the twin gods' final plea.
However, the grand tapestry of creation, woven by deities and cosmic architects, bore the weight of impermanence. Their accomplishments, once monumental, now teetered on the precipice of oblivion. And in this celestial dance, another god stumbled—a fallen star in the cosmic ballet.
He, nameless and forgotten, had endured cycles of imprisonment. Sealed within cosmic wards, He faded into particles—the very essence of existence. Reduced to a mere dot, He lingered in the eyes of the twin gods—their gaze indifferent to His plight. His devotees, however, clung to His memory, forsaking the original world to follow their fallen King.
Cultists, mad and fervent, flung themselves upon the Saints—the guardians of cosmic balance. Laughter and pleas echoed as blades met flesh. The Saints, unyielding, slaughtered each supplicant. Yet their cheers—those macabre hymns—swelled louder, a perverse symphony.
Particle by particle, the cultists merged with the twin gods' bodies. Their devotion transformed—a reawakening. The fallen King, once a dot, now stirred within the cosmic framework. Destruction beckoned—an encore to Creation's overture.
In the shadowed corners of reality, the paranormal took root. The worshippers formed their faction—a clandestine brotherhood. Not content with mere humanity, they posed a threat to all life. Beasts and magi alike became their enemies, and their allegiance was to themselves alone.
Across the world, their numbers burgeoned—akin to coyote populations in the sun-scorched southern terrain. Sacrifices, gruesome and unholy, stained their altars. Blood, repulsive yet potent, fueled their rituals. Even among society's sociopaths, these acts were deemed evil—an irony so absurd that it bordered on the comical.
The twins, once aloof observers, stirred from their cosmic slumber. Their realization dawned—an almost-success, a King present. Yet, despite their celestial perch, they were powerless. Reduced to husks, like the very deity they sought to thwart. Creation's architects, yet impotent against the uncreated.
The cultists, those fervent worshippers, danced through alternate routes—gleeful escape from divine scrutiny. But the burden fell upon a mortal—an ordinary soul, unremarkable yet chosen. His task: to bar the King's resurrection, to shackle chaos anew.
The Saints, guardians of cosmic balance, had reduced the King's Spears to particles. Now, this human must retrieve them—the very weapons that once sundered their ranks. Spears forged in defiance, wielded by a fallen god. Their purpose? To obliterate the King, lest His shadow darken existence once more.
And the Spears—swiftly evolving, surpassing their dormant King. The twins theorized: His Authority, dwindling, had birthed them. Catalysts for His followers, conduits of His lingering power. A select few Spears belonged to unique humans; the rest plundered from His worshippers—their devotion crystallized in steel.
But it was S#@* who bridged worlds—a mortal conduit. From higher dimensions to particle form, then reassembled—a bridge between realms. His steel name tag bore a single, potent name—a sigil of purpose. Unaltered in appearance, yet harboring cosmic secrets.
And so, the journey unfurled—a mortal, a King, and Spears poised for destiny. Kairo Emiya, menedzser, stepped beyond mundanity.
Author's Note: I'm new to , but I know that works here have to be high quality so I'm gonna be really verbose in my story. This story of mine was originally posted on Wattpad but I suddenly decided to post this here. It's a lot shorter and less professional on Wattpad so if you don't enjoy it here check it out there. Make sure to leave a review cause I'm a lazy ass writer. I admit that this prologue is incomplete so just tell me what the hell i need to add. Same goes for the rest of the chapters. I simply don't know what to add and I say "fuck it, it's good enough". Expect very slow updates and new chapters. Also, I have a hate boner for Koyanskaya. Fuck her both ways.