Disclaimer: Fate does not belong to me; everything belongs to its respective creator. The only thing that is mine is the story of this Fanfic.
The hill stretched beyond the horizon, covered in swords of all sizes and shapes. Endless rows of steel, iron, and bronze, each one firmly embedded in the ground. Each blade had a story, a life that marked its existence in this eternal landscape, a silent legacy that persisted in the mind of whoever gazed upon it. Unlimited Blade Works, his own inner domain, a place as familiar as it was desolate. Here, time did not move; the perpetually gray sky witnessed past, present, and future battles. Dark clouds swirled in the distance, an omen of a conflict that never seemed to end.
The ground, mostly barren and cracked, contrasted with some areas where withered grass tried to cling to life, fragile yet resilient despite the harsh conditions. However, that dull green only added to the feeling of decay in the landscape; any trace of life was destined to perish, crushed under the weight of the surrounding metal.
This desolate landscape was observed by a man who stood still in the middle of the field of swords. His eyes, now filled with nostalgia and experience, gazed at the horizon covered in steel. He had spent an eternity in this place, and though he knew every corner of this inner world, it never ceased to feel strange, alien to him. The first time he had summoned it, this landscape had seemed majestic, a reflection of his spirit and conviction. But now, after countless years and battles, it was a grim reminder of what he had sacrificed to obtain that power.
Unlimited Blade Works was more than an unlimited arsenal of weapons; it was a compendium of his life. Every sword resonated with a metallic echo, almost as if the blades themselves whispered the moments in which they had been wielded. Here, in this world of his own creation, each sword represented a crucial moment: a life saved, a betrayal committed, a victory won at too high a cost.
Even though this place belonged to him, he perceived it as a prison. The swords embedded in the ground were not only reflections of his power but also of the decisions he had made as a Counter Guardian. Each blade was a reminder of the times he had had to take lives to save others, of the moments when he had been called to destroy in order to preserve. An agent of Alaya, a tool for the protection of humanity... but at what cost?
Shirou Emiya, or what was left of him, let his gaze wander over the vast rows of weapons. His eyes, once filled with unshakable determination, now showed a mixture of hardness and resignation. Every intervention in a conflict, every battle, reminded him that his desire to be a "hero of justice" was always met with the bitter truth of reality. He, who had dreamed of saving everyone, faced time and again the cruel irony of his existence: he could only protect a few.
"An empty dream..." he whispered, his voice lost in the wind that carried a faint echo of metal.
He remembered his youth, when the ideas of justice and heroism were clear to him. In those days, he had firmly believed that saving lives and fighting for good was something simple, something that anyone with enough willpower could achieve. But now, in this landscape of infinite swords, each weapon represented a failure, a sacrifice he hadn't been able to avoid. Every time he summoned this inner world, every time he saw the swords surrounding him, he faced the same dilemma: had it really been worth it?
The swords, some gleaming, others already corroded by time, stood as monuments to his choices. Some had been wielded in defense of the innocent; others had been used to cut down lives in the name of a "greater good." But all shared the same fate: to become silent witnesses to a hero who had lost sight of what it meant to be one.
The echo of battle resonated in the distance, a reminder that even though he was in his inner world, reality was calling him again. The invocation of Alaya would come soon. He knew he couldn't escape his destiny. He was destined to keep fighting, to intervene in wars that weren't his, to make impossible decisions. There was no rest for the Counter Guardians. There was no redemption for those who had signed their pact with Alaya.
The wind blew stronger, stirring the leaves of the swords. The gray sky seemed to darken even more, and shadows began to lengthen around him. Soon, the mist that heralded his next mission would begin to envelop him. He knew what was coming; he had lived through it countless times. He knew he would be sent to another war, to another battlefield, to another situation where his intervention would be necessary but never enough.
But in this brief moment, here in his inner world, he could allow himself something he rarely permitted on the battlefield: the luxury of doubt.
"Was it really worth it?" he asked himself, over and over, though he already knew the answer. But as always, before he could delve deeper into his own thoughts, Alaya's call dragged him back to reality, to conflict, and to the endless fight for justice.
The wind blew gently between the swords, creating a faint whistle that echoed across the field. In the distance, some of the older weapons had begun to rust, yet they remained upright, as if time could not completely break them. The newer swords gleamed under the dim light of the gray sky, but their shine offered no comfort, only a warning: new battles were on the horizon.
Emiya took a few steps forward, his boots echoing on the metal-covered ground. Though the weight of accumulated exhaustion was evident in his movements, he couldn't stop. Eternity, it seemed, did not offer even the solace of stillness. His thoughts wandered to those he had tried to save. Blurred faces, forgotten names... How many sacrifices had been in vain?
Each sword represented a battle fought, a promise made, and also, in many cases, a promise broken. How many times had he sworn to protect someone, only to see them perish while he continued forward, fulfilling his duty? His duty as a Counter Guardian wasn't to save, but to maintain balance. A bitter truth that never stopped weighing on his heart.
Yet despite everything, he couldn't stop fighting. He couldn't give up that part of himself that still believed in justice, in sacrifice for the greater good. He knew he had lost the right to dream of a happy ending, but as long as he had breath, he would use it to protect, to fight, even if it was only for a few.
He looked up at the sky once more. The dark clouds swirled with greater intensity, signaling the imminent conflict. Alaya was calling. There was no room for doubt at that moment. Only action, only swords.
With a gesture of his hand, a familiar blade materialized before him. A sword he had wielded more times than he could remember, a reflection of his determination and his sacrifice. He held it firmly, feeling the weight of the steel in his hand, the cold of the metal against his skin. It was a sensation that both comforted and terrified him. Because he knew that, once again, he would have to wield that sword. Once again, he would have to take a life to save others.
"There is no end to this path..." he murmured to himself before vanishing into the mist, ready to face his next challenge.
The battlefield stretched out before him, but in his mind, it was a distant echo. The weight of his decisions bore down on him more than the weapons, and the scars from each battle, from each soul he hadn't been able to save, were deeply etched into his heart.
Emiya knew that the pact with Alaya hadn't granted him what he had wanted, but rather what he had needed in that moment of desperation. The promise of becoming a hero of justice had been his dream, but the reality he faced as a Counter Guardian was far different. He wasn't a savior; he was a weapon.
Each time he appeared in a new war, the weight of that truth pressed down on him. He was called to protect humanity, but humanity was never a homogeneous group. There were always innocents who died, always lives that were sacrificed. And he, despite all his abilities, couldn't save them all. That was the cruelest truth of his existence.
In the distance, he saw the landscape beginning to fade. He knew what that meant. Unlimited Blade Works would soon collapse, and he would be dragged back to the real world, to another scenario where his intervention would be crucial, yet insufficient. The faces of those he had saved in the past mingled with those he had lost. The cries of battle, the laments of the dying, all blended into a single deafening echo that followed him wherever he went.
"Why do I keep doing this?" he muttered softly.
But there was no answer. Or maybe the answer was too simple: because it was the only thing he could do. Because even though his will wavered, his body kept moving, obeying Alaya's call.
Amidst that sea of swords, Emiya stopped in front of a particularly worn blade. At first glance, it appeared to be an ordinary weapon, nothing special. But he knew what it represented. This sword, in particular, had been wielded during one of his darkest moments, when he had to sacrifice hundreds to save thousands. At the time, he had believed it was the right thing to do, but now, looking at the sword, he couldn't help but wonder if it had truly been worth it.
The reflection on the blade showed his own face. The lines of fatigue on his forehead, the exhaustion in his eyes, were all evident. He looked older than he actually was, but that didn't matter. Physical age held no relevance for a Counter Guardian; what mattered was the weight of the decisions he had carried.
His fingers brushed the edge of the sword, feeling the cold of the metal. It was a constant reminder that, although he had achieved great things, he had also failed. He had failed as often as he had triumphed, if not more.
But he couldn't afford the luxury of regret. He couldn't stop to mourn the lives lost. If he did, the weight of his guilt would crush him, and he would no longer be able to move forward. And although he longed to free himself from that burden, he knew his fate was sealed. Alaya would not allow him to rest until his mission was complete.
The reflection of his face in the sword began to fade, replaced by a darker image: the fire of the battles that awaited him. The air around him began to distort, and the swords surrounding him started to vibrate, as if they were responding to a call that only he could hear.
"The same cycle, over and over again..." he said quietly, as the wind began to rise around him.
But there was no other choice. He was a Counter Guardian, and his fight would never end.
End of prologue.
What did you think of the chapter?
This story is an idea I've had for a long time. I decided to remake it because I wasn't happy with how it was turning out.
With nothing more to say, have an excellent day.