Birds chirped softly in the distance, their songs carrying in the crisp morning air. The wind rustled through the trees, freely sweeping across the open fields as the sun, now at its peak, blazed down in full force. It was the kind of day that begged for nothing more than lounging in the warmth, letting the world slip by as the hours slowly passed.
Seventeen-year-old Tomoe Enjou blinked into the harsh rays of light that streamed into his room, his face scrunching in mild annoyance. The sunlight was unforgiving, pushing against the remnants of sleep still clinging to his mind. He rubbed his eyes with a tired grunt before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The quiet of the room was punctuated by the crack of his joints as he stretched, a small, fleeting sense of relief washing over him as his bones popped back into place.
"Ah…" he exhaled quietly, shaking off the grogginess as he began to tidy his bed. He wasn't always an early rise, but today had been different. His body had stirred far too early, waking him from the grasp of a nightmare that had clung to him like a heavy fog. But there were no fears, no despair, only a dull sense of emptiness.
Sighing once more, he stood and began to pull on his school uniform with a practiced hand. A glance at the clock on the wall, though, made him pause. His eyes narrowed as the realization hit. He'd woken too early—far too early—and that only meant one thing: another restless night.
The sound of his mother's voice broke through his thoughts.
"Good morning, son," she called to him, her voice soft and warm, as always. She stood in the kitchen, spooning miso soup into bowls, the steam rising in gentle curls. Her smile was as radiant as ever, a comforting constant in his life.
"Just some miso soup. I hope it's to your satisfaction."
Tomoe sat at the table, accepting the bowl she slid in front of him. The warmth of the soup was a small comfort, though it did little to settle the tightness in his chest. He took a bite, but his mind wandered elsewhere, and a fleeting glance at the clock revealed that something else was amiss.
He hadn't woken up at his usual time.
The unease gnawed at him, a dull ache he couldn't ignore. He set the chopsticks down, the faint sound of them clinking against the bowl echoing in the quiet room.
His mother's eyes softened as she watched him, noting the silence that stretched between them. She paused in her movements, her expression shifting from one of warmth to concern.
"Nightmare again?" she asked gently, her voice barely above a whisper.
Tomoe's gaze dropped to the table, his shoulders slumping in resignation. His silence was answer enough.
His mother sighed, her hand unconsciously resting on her belly as she looked at him with that familiar, comforting sorrow in her eyes. "Tomoe… I've told you this many times. It's not your fault."
The words, though comforting, never seemed to reach him. Not fully.
He nodded absently, a bitter taste in his mouth. Perhaps not, but the sense of loss, the weight of it, followed him—haunted him. It clung to his every waking moment, a shadow that refused to let go. It was there in his dreams, and it lingered even when he was awake.
"And there's nothing wrong with moving on," his mother added softly, her voice filled with understanding.
Tomoe's hands clenched around his bowl for a moment, the heat of it grounding him. He knew what she meant, and yet the words felt distant, like they were meant for someone else. He nodded again, offering a half-hearted smile to her.
"I know. Thanks, Mom."
His mother's smile returned, soft and reassuring. She was always the anchor, always the one who seemed to know exactly what to say, even when he didn't have the words.
"Good," she said, turning to grab the dishes. "Now, go wake up your sister. I'll go and wake up your father."
At the mention of his sister, Tomoe's smile faltered. The warmth in his chest died, replaced by a cool, unsettling emptiness.
Right. His sister.
"Okay," he muttered quietly, the words forced from his throat as he stood from the table. He didn't meet his mother's gaze as he walked toward the stairs.
"Hey, it's morning already," he called, his voice oddly hollow as he approached the door to her room. His sister room.
But even as he said it, a thought drifted into his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Adopted sister.
The words lingered in his thoughts, bitter and painful, like a wound that refused to heal. It had been 2 years since she had come into their lives, and yet the conflicting emotions still churned in his heart. He should have been happy. He wanted to be happy. But...
She replace him.
The thought slipped through his mind like a whisper in the dark, sharp and unwelcome. His grip tightened on the doorframe, but he forced himself to push it away.
She had nothing to do with your loss. Fool.
He exhaled, the harshness of his inner voice pulling him back to reality. Focus. You have to do this.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Tomoe forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He pushed the door open gently and stepped into the room.
"Miyu," he called again, his voice a little softer this time. "It's time to wake up."
Z
Miyu was twelve years old, a sixth-grader with neck-length black hair that framed her delicate face in a way that only enhanced her quiet, reserved nature. Tomoe always thought of her as the textbook definition of a kuudere—aloof, composed, and seemingly distant to everyone but her family. Even in the mornings, when she woke from her peaceful slumber, she was still the picture of calm, her dark hair spilling over her pillow as she lay in stillness.
It was easy to imagine, even now, that she would grow into a striking beauty. Her sleeping form was serene, almost ethereal, the faint curve of her lips betraying the calmness of her exterior. Tomoe had no romantic feelings toward her, of course—she was his sister, after all—but it was undeniable. Even in her slumber, there was something undeniably captivating about her presence.
Two years ago, their father had found her in the most unexpected way, a child abandoned and forgotten by the world, and brought her into their home. It had been a shock to Tomoe and his mother at first. His father had always been a man of impulse, but adopting a child out of nowhere was a drastic move, even for him.
At first, there had been uncertainty. Questions. Frustration. It wasn't that his mother didn't want another child, but there was something unsettling about how quickly everything had changed. But despite the initial confusion, his mother had adapted far faster than Tomoe had anticipated.
She had fallen in love with Miyu in quite a short time, embracing her with an openness that made Tomoe's heart ache with something he couldn't quite place. She treated Miyu as her own, doting on her with a tenderness that Tomoe had come to understand was as natural to his mother as breathing. And Miyu, in turn, had come to see her as her real mother. The bond between them was clear in every touch, every word exchanged, in the easy familiarity that passed between them.
But Tomoe… Tomoe never could quite find his place in it all.
He tried to get along with Miyu, tried to be the older brother. They were close enough, in their own quiet way. Tomoe had learned to appreciate her silent presence, her quiet intelligence. Miyu, for her part, respected him—perhaps even cared for him more than he realized.
Yet, despite their efforts, something always felt just out of reach. Tomoe had begun to notice, in the small things, how Miyu seemed to rely on him. How her gaze softened when he spoke to her, how she looked to him for approval in little things. She'd even started calling him onichan—older brother—something that stung every time she said it.
It wasn't that he didn't care for her. He did, deeply. But something inside him couldn't shake the feeling that he was using her, in some way, as a substitute for the brother he had lost. It was a guilt he couldn't escape, a sense of unfairness that gnawed at him each time Miyu sought his affection. He knew she deserved better, but it was hard not to see her as the child that was filling the hole left behind.
A hole that, no matter how much he wished it would, never seemed to heal.
With a quiet sigh, Tomoe crossed the room, his footsteps soft against the floorboards. He stood by her bed, looking at her peaceful expression for a moment longer than he intended. His heart twisted slightly, and he forced himself to shake it off. He wasn't a child anymore; he couldn't afford to hold onto this kind of weakness.
"Miyu," he called gently, kneeling down beside her bed. "It's time to wake up."
Her eyes fluttered open, and the soft light of morning filtered in through the curtains, catching in the strands of her hair. Miyu blinked sleepily at him, the sleepy frown on her face melting into something that almost resembled a smile.
"Morning, onichan," she greeted, her voice still thick with sleep.
And yet, for Tomoe, it felt like a punch to the gut.
His chest tightened, and he looked away for a moment, trying to steady himself. He hated this feeling. He hated how the guilt surged every time she called him that, how he couldn't escape the weight of his own heart. But this was his life now. He had to accept it. He had to move on.
Still, the thought lingered. Always…
"Come on," he said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Get up, breakfast is ready. We need to head to school soon."
Miyu nodded, slowly pushing herself up from the bed. She yawned and stretched, her movements slow and languid as she rubbed her eyes. Tomoe stood, giving her a moment before heading back downstairs, the silence between them thick with the weight of everything unspoken.
He would live with it. He would keep moving forward, just like he always had. Always.
Z
Breakfast that morning had been lively, though not in the way Tomoe would have preferred. His parents were as affectionate as ever, exchanging soft glances and quiet words, lost in their own world. It was as if nothing had changed—except for him. He couldn't help but comment here and there, offering a wry smile or an offhand remark, but it was clear that the joy in the air is infectious.
Miyu, however, remained silent, her focus solely on her food as she quietly finished her breakfast. She didn't participate in the back-and-forth banter, not that Tomoe expected her to. She was never the type for such things, always more interested in her books and the quiet solace of her thoughts.
His mother's cheerful laughter rang through the kitchen as she wiped down the table, and his father, always the cheerful one, teased Tomoe about his early start to the day. The atmosphere was filled with the sound of plates clinking and gentle conversation.
Once breakfast was finished, Tomoe grabbed his bag and prepared to leave for school. His father had already left, rushing to catch the train.
Ten years ago, things were different—his father had owned a car, and life had moved at a different pace. But after the near-fatal accident, everything changed. His father sold the car, deeming it unlucky, and started taking the train to work instead.
It was a small but significant change, one that Tomoe didn't fully understand. His father, however, seemed to embrace it with a calm resolve, as if it was the only way forward. Tomoe didn't know what to make of it, but he didn't ask. Too young too understand at the time.
With Miyu by his side, he walked her to her school first, the familiar path filled with the quiet of early morning. She walked beside him, her silence a comfort of its own. When they reached the gates of her school, he patted her on the head lightly—a rare gesture for him—but one he knew she appreciated.
"Good luck today," he muttered, offering her a small, genuine smile.
Miyu only nodded, her eyes softening for a moment before she turned and disappeared into the school grounds. Tomoe stood there for a moment, watching her go, before he turned to continue on his own path to high school.
As he walked, he glanced up at the sky, his face neutral, the weight of the morning still lingering in his chest. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder and continued onward, each step dragging him further into the routine that had come to define his days.
He entered the school gates, the bustling chatter of students filling the air around him. His eyes wandered, taking in the faces of familiar classmates, each one already engrossed in their own conversations, their own worlds. But in the center of the group, one face stood out.
Rin Tohsaka.
She was hard to miss, with her long black hair tied up in twin tails, her posture straight and confident, her eyes sharp. She was a new student, having transferred back from abroad just a few weeks ago. It was the talk of the school when she returned—apparently, she had spent her middle school years in London before deciding to finish her education in Japan.
At first, Tomoe had thought her aloof, distant. She had that typical "honor student" vibe: cold, calculated, and utterly unimpressed by the world around her. Her grades were impeccable, and she seemed to glide through life with a sense of superiority that only seemed to grow as the rumors about her spread. Word had it that she had crushed a few love notes—mercilessly, and without a second thought.
That first impression of her had stuck with Tomoe, but it had been shattered one day when he witnessed something he hadn't expected. Rin had gotten into a fistfight with another transfer student, Luvia Edelfelt. Tomoe had no idea how their rivalry had started, but from the way they fought, it was clear that it was personal. Both girls were as fierce as they were beautiful, and the tension between them was palpable.
Apparently, they had met in London, where their rivalry had been born, and it had only escalated since their return to Japan. The stories about their heated confrontations were becoming a regular feature of the school gossip mill, but Tomoe had no interest in being caught up in it.
He wasn't foolish enough to get involved in their drama. Their rivalry was like a storm on the horizon—something that would pass by if you were careful enough to stay out of its path.
So, he kept his distance. As usual.
And so, Tomoe's school day began, the chaos of his classmates swirling around him. His eyes drifted toward Rin and Luvia's group, their loud voices cutting through the noise of the other students. He ignored them, just as he always did, and let himself be swallowed by the crowd. Today would be like any other day—a blur of lessons and idle chatter, one day following the next in an endless cycle.
Z
As the day began to set, the sky bled crimson before surrendering to the deep black of night. The streets glowed faintly under the amber haze of streetlights. Tomoe Enjou left the school grounds later than usual, his footsteps echoing in the quiet, empty corridors. The track team's training had run long, but it wasn't the reason for his delay. He'd been stuck with cleaning duty, a thankless task that left him alone to finish what the others had rushed through.
Shouldering his bag, Tomoe glanced around the school courtyard. Groups of students had already left in clusters, their laughter and conversations fading into the distance. Nobody paid him any mind—not the other athletes, not the bystanders who knew him as the track star.
His amber eyes flickered toward the elementary school across the street. Miyu was likely home by now, probably reading or quietly working through her assignments. The thought of her waiting for him brought a faint warmth to his chest, though it was quickly swallowed by the ever-present haze of his lingering doubts.
Looking up, he caught the fading streaks of orange and purple in the sky, the last vestiges of daylight. He sighed softly and started walking. The streets stretched ahead, the familiar path winding homeward. Yet, tonight, he chose a different route, letting his feet carry him wherever they pleased.
As he walked, Tomoe's mind replayed the question his teacher had posed earlier that day: "What will you do after graduation?"
It wasn't a surprising question—students were constantly asked to think about their futures—but it had stuck with him.
"What am I gonna do?" he muttered to himself, the words barely audible over the rhythmic sound of his footsteps.
He wasn't hopeless—far from it. His grades were decent, though unremarkable. He'd earned a few trophies for track, his speed and endurance earning him scholarships and respect. But Tomoe knew that running wouldn't carry him forever. The real world didn't care about medals or fleeting victories.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small, worn key. He didn't even know why he carried it most days, but the weight of it felt grounding. He stared at it for a moment, its cool surface pressing against his palm.
"I'll figure it out," he said aloud, as if speaking the words would solidify them. Determination flickered in his mind, pushing aside the ever-present doubts.
His path carried him into unfamiliar streets, weaving through narrow alleys until he found himself near the ruins of the Fuyuki Hyatt Hotel. The sight of the decrepit building sent a shiver down his spine. Its dark, broken windows stared back at him like hollow eyes, and its crumbling facade loomed like a silent warning.
Tomoe averted his gaze, quickening his pace. He didn't know why, but the place always made him uneasy.
Then, something unusual broke the monotony of his steps—a soft crunch beneath his foot. He stopped and looked down, frowning at the object he'd stepped on.
"A card?" he murmured, crouching to pick it up. He held it up to the dim light of a nearby streetlamp, brushing away the dirt.
It was unlike any playing card he'd ever seen. One side bore the intricate image of a knight in full armor, a massive sword clutched in its gauntleted hands. The other side was equally strange, covered in symbols and designs that reminded him of something out of a fantasy manga.
"Magic?" he guessed, turning it over in his hands. "Probably some collectible."
Tomoe glanced around, searching for the card's owner, but the streets were deserted. With a shrug, he slipped it into his pocket.
The moment he did, the world unraveled.
The sensation hit like a physical blow. His vision warped, colors bleeding into each other as the ground seemed to twist and spiral. Every fiber of his being felt like it was being pulled in a thousand directions at once. He couldn't scream—he couldn't even breathe.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
Tomoe collapsed against a nearby fence, his body drenched in sweat. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and his legs buckled beneath him. He clutched his stomach as nausea rolled over him, bile threatening to rise in his throat.
For long moments, he simply sat there, gasping for air. The world felt solid again, but his mind struggled to make sense of what had happened. Slowly, shakily, he forced himself to stand.
"What… the hell was that?" he croaked, his voice hoarse.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, his eyes darting around. At first, everything seemed normal—but then he noticed the signs.
Literally.
Every street sign, every shop name, every piece of text was reversed. Even the streetlights seemed to cast their glow in the wrong direction. It was as if the entire world had been flipped like a mirror image.
Tomoe's breathing quickened. His instincts screamed at him to leave, to run—but his legs felt rooted to the ground. The unnatural stillness of the air around him made his skin crawl.
And then, he heard it.
The sharp, metallic sound of blades scraping together.
It came from behind him, from the hotel's yard. The noise sent a spike of terror through him, freezing him in place. His body shook violently, every nerve screaming at him to run, to hide, to do *something*—but he couldn't.
Slowly, with painstaking effort, Tomoe forced his head to turn.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
Standing in the shadowed yard was a figure—a warrior clad in ancient, weathered armor. Its eyes glowed faintly, like embers in the darkness, and its hand rested on the hilt of a massive, jagged sword. The air around it seemed to hum with an oppressive energy, heavy and suffocating.
The warrior's gaze locked onto Tomoe, unblinking and unnervingly focused.
For the first time in years, Tomoe felt utterly powerless.
Z
The figure didn't look like any fighter Tomoe had ever seen, not in real life and not even in manga. His hair was a wild mess, short yet untamed, with one prominent green lock falling between bloodshot eyes. Crimson streaks trailed down his pale cheeks like warpaint, smudged and smeared.
But it wasn't the weapons or even the ominous glow of his eyes that froze Tomoe in place.
It was that grin.
Sadistic, sharp, and filled with a deranged delight, the warrior's expression was less human and more like a predator toying with its prey.
He said nothing. Not a word, not a sound. Instead, he raised his weapons—two spears, one tipped in glistening red and the other in burnished gold. Both looked impossibly sharp, their craftsmanship impossibly perfect, like treasures meant for gods.
And he pointed them right at Tomoe.
All rational thought left Tomoe's mind. Instinct took over.
Run.
Without hesitation, Tomoe turned and bolted, his legs pumping harder than they ever had on the track. The wind roared in his ears, his breath burned in his chest, and his heart pounded like a war drum.
He didn't care where he was running, only that he needed to get away.
Live. Just live.
And for a while, it almost felt like he could. A spark of hope flickered—his track skills weren't for nothing, after all. He wasn't just fast; he was fast. He had the trophies to prove it.
But the hope snuffed out as quickly as it came.
Because the warrior was faster.
Tomoe chanced a look over his shoulder and immediately regretted it. The warrior wasn't running—he was hunting. Each of his steps landed with unnatural precision, covering impossible distances as if mocking Tomoe's efforts. The sound of metal clinking faintly with every movement was a horrifying metronome to his sprint.
Stopping wasn't an option. Stopping meant death. And Tomoe, though he rarely thought about it, was particularly allergic to death.
But reality was cruel. No matter how fast or hard he ran, his hunter was faster and stronger.
The predator made his move.
Before Tomoe could process what was happening, the warrior leapt into the air like a shadow, his form blocking out the moonlight for a split second before landing in front of Tomoe with a force that shook the ground.
Tomoe skidded to a halt, his sneakers screeching against the pavement, his chest heaving with desperate breaths.
He didn't get another chance to run.
In the time it took Tomoe to blink, the warrior was already there, standing inches away with that same deranged grin plastered across his face.
Time slowed.
Tomoe's amber eyes locked onto the figure. His body froze, every instinct screaming at him to move, to fight, to do something. But fear shackled him in place, rendering him helpless as the warrior raised a leg and drove it straight into his ribs.
The pain was immediate and excruciating.
Tomoe screamed, the sound raw and guttural, as white-hot agony exploded through his chest. He crumpled to the ground, clutching his side. Every shallow breath felt like knives slicing through him, and his ribs screamed in protest.
The warrior didn't stop.
A gauntleted hand reached down, grabbed Tomoe by the neck, and yanked him up with ease. His feet dangled uselessly as the warrior's grip tightened, cutting off air and leaving him gasping.
"Let… go…" he choked out, his voice barely audible.
The warrior sneered and flung him like a ragdoll.
Tomoe's body crashed into the side of a wall with a sickening crack. Stars danced in his vision as he collapsed into a heap, his spine screaming in protest. Blood poured from his mouth, his nose, and countless other cuts and gashes.
His fingers twitched weakly. His vision blurred, darkening at the edges.
I'm going to die.
The thought repeated over and over in his head, a cruel mantra that refused to be silenced.
The warrior raised his golden spear, its sharp edge gleaming in the pale moonlight.
The predator smirked, his victory assured. He didn't speak, but the expression said it all.
The spear's tip pointed directly at Tomoe's chest, right over his heart.
Tomoe's mind raced. Images of Miyu, his parents, and the people he cared about flashed before him. They wouldn't even know what had happened. He would just… disappear, leaving nothing behind but unanswered questions.
No.
That wasn't what he wanted.
Deep in his pocket, the forgotten card burned against his skin. Its heat spread, igniting something deep within him.
The spear shot forward, the air screaming as it tore toward his heart.
Tomoe's hand moved instinctively, clutching at the burning card as his lips parted, a desperate, primal shout escaping his throat:
"I want to live!"
The card in his hand flared to life, its light blinding and all-consuming. The world trembled in response, and for the briefest moment, it felt as though the universe itself held its breath.
The warrior stopped mid-strike, his eyes narrowing as the golden glow of the card bathed the street in ethereal light.
Tomoe didn't know what was happening. He didn't care.
All he knew was that he wasn't ready to die.
Not yet.
Z
The words had barely left Tomoe's lips when the world erupted into chaos.
In an instant, a blinding white light enveloped him, so bright it turned night into day. The light shot upward, piercing the heavens as if tearing through the very fabric of reality itself. It formed a tower of blazing luminescence, pulsing with unimaginable magical energy. The sheer intensity of the spectacle forced the air to explode outward, creating a howling wind that tore through the street.
Nearby debris—broken bottles, scraps of paper, loose tiles—was flung away in every direction, and even the mad warrior was forced to retreat, his wild grin replaced by a rare flicker of surprise.
Lancer raised his guard on instinct as he stumbled back, both spears crossed in front of him. The air cracked like thunder, and his eyes darted around, trying to pierce through the radiant storm. But he was too late.
A sharp, invisible force lashed out, cutting across his chest.
His armor, ornate and supernatural, split open with a metallic screech. Blood trickled from the shallow wound, dripping onto the ground below. Lancer snarled but otherwise ignored the injury, his bloodshot green eyes narrowing in predatory focus as they fixed on the figure before him.
Tomoe.
Or, at least, what had been Tomoe.
The boy who had cowered moments ago now stood tall, shrouded in an aura of newfound strength and resolve. His school uniform was gone, replaced by attire that spoke of another time, another purpose.
Black hakama draped over his legs, held in place by a crimson sash intricately tied with white knots. His bare torso was enveloped by a flowing white cloak, its edges fluttering in the dying remnants of the magical wind. A crimson, embroidered igote armored his left arm, the material gleaming faintly in the moonlight. The sharp kegetsu boots on his feet scraped against the concrete as he adjusted his stance.
In his right hand, he held a katana—a blade unlike anything he'd ever seen, its edge razor-sharp and gleaming with fresh blood from the strike he had landed. The sword hummed faintly, as if alive, its presence heavy and undeniable.
Tomoe stared at it in disbelief for a moment, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The blade was foreign, yet familiar. It felt right in his hand, like it had always been a part of him.
"What the…" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears. His amber eyes flicked from the sword to Lancer, who now stood several feet away, his grin impossibly wide.
Lancer's grin said it all. Amusement. Sadistic glee. A hunger for violence.
Tomoe swallowed hard, gripping the katana tighter as a newfound resolve bubbled within him. His stance shifted, the blade's point raising to aim directly at Lancer.
"If…if you're going to kill me," he said, his voice steadier than he expected, "then I'm going to do my best to beat you."
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then Lancer moved.
With a snarl, he lunged forward like a wild animal, both spears swinging in an arc that screamed with deadly intent. His movements were impossibly fast, a blur of crimson and gold.
But Tomoe didn't flinch.
Instinct guided him as he raised his katana, the blade colliding with Lancer's spears in a shower of chaotic sparks. The impact reverberated through his arm, jarring and powerful, but he held firm.
Lancer's grin widened, his excitement palpable as he pressed forward, his strikes relentless. Each swing of his spears was precise and deadly, aiming to overwhelm and destroy. But Tomoe, against all odds, met every attack with his blade.
Their clash painted the street with light and sound, the sparks from their weapons dancing like fireflies in the night. The sheer force of their battle cracked the pavement beneath their feet, and the air around them hummed with energy.
Tomoe's body moved with a fluidity he didn't understand, his strikes and parries flowing as if he had trained for years. But there was no time to question it. No time to think.
Lancer twisted, his red spear stabbing forward with blinding speed. Tomoe sidestepped, the blade of his katana slicing upward to deflect the strike. The golden spear followed immediately, slashing in a deadly arc that forced Tomoe to leap back, his boots skidding against the concrete.
The boy's chest heaved as he stared at his opponent, sweat dripping down his face. He was outmatched—he knew that. Lancer was faster, stronger, more skilled.
But he wasn't giving up.
The katana in his hand pulsed with a faint glow, and Tomoe felt its power surging through him, pushing him to move forward. To fight.
Lancer's eyes glinted with something dark, his movements growing even faster, more erratic. His silence only added to the dread—the man had no need for words.
Tomoe tightened his grip on the katana, his eyes narrowing. The blade felt like the only thing standing between him and oblivion.
And so, the dance of death continued, the boy and the Servant locked in a battle that shook the night.
Unbeknownst to Tomoe, he had gotten involved in a sinister ritual.
A new Holy Grail War had begun.