Writer's note: It might not be what you were expecting or what you wanted, but I hope you enjoy.
The boy entered the cave with a lantern held high, its dim glow licking at the jagged walls. The air was damp and thick with the scent of rot and something worse, something cloyingly sweet, sickeningly so.
It was as if he were walking through a field of decaying flowers under a sky with no sun.
This was the boy's first hunt alone.
Nineteen disappearances in seven months.
Outdoorsmen who wandered too deep into the forests and got lost.
Rowdy teenagers who ran away from home.
Irritated spouses who stepped outside to get away from their partners.
Children who stayed out late for too long.
It was predominantly males who had disappeared without a trace, with the exception of two young women.
The young executor came prepared, weapons already in hand, deadly sharp blades that could cut through stone like damp paper.
His bones were hardened until they would no longer crack from the temperings. His flesh and mind were trained even further.
A cross dangled from around his neck.
He grabbed it gently and held it to his lip as a silent prayer.
This place was wrong.
Nothing like instinct or training was needed for such a conclusion.
Any living creature would be able to tell the same.
The further he moved into the cave, the narrower the passage became, the shadows threatening to eat the small spark he carried with him.
He threw daggers into the walls that glowed hot as if they were retrieved directly from the forge before they could even be quenched, yet the light they granted did not extend even an arm's length.
Webs clung to the walls in thick sheets, some no wider than a man's outstretched hand, others vast as tapestries.
It all became so dense that he could hear them even when he could not see them, rustling drafts that knitted a maze.
Reaching out his hand, the executor boy felt a lump in the air.
More daggers were thrown to the ground. The room beneath the mountain became red.
He saw what he was touching.
Bodies cocooned in silk, hanging from the ceiling like grotesque fruit. Their forms twitched, subtle, as if some faint breath of life still remained in them. The lantern's light cast shadows over their stretched faces, their open mouths frozen in soundless screams.
There was no way for them to have escaped.
Four of the cocoons were empty now.
Blood rushed to his head, as if his own anger was going to crush his body. His jaw tightened like a vice clamp, threatening to break his teeth.
The short hilt grasped in his hand became a long and slender blade that was specially made to hurt inhuman monsters.
Pierce through the heart.
Cut through the neck.
Smash through the head.
Cripple the flesh.
Dismantle the bones.
Leave nothing left.
When he was a child, he trained until his bones cracked for the purpose of destroying all heretical beings.
Monsters did not belong in this world of God's making.
A whisper of movement above him made the shadows flicker.
He turned sharply, raising the lantern. The shadows coiled around the ceiling, shifting unnaturally. The silk glistened like wet skin, shifting, breathing. The executor clenched his jaw and raised the lantern higher
The light faintly reflected off of two orbs hiding in the dark.
He lifted his blade as the shadow above him began to bloom.
He had listened to many stories of how evil will seduce with beauty.
That day, he learned the truth of such stories.
Something descended in a slow, graceful motion. A woman, her pale skin ghostly in the flickering light. Long, purple hair cascaded over her shoulders, swaying as she moved. She was beautiful, unbearably so, her lips curved in a smile that was too knowing, too cold. She stepped closer, and her bare feet made no sound against the stone. They did not drag against the white tapestries.
The boy did not lower his weapon.
Another step.
Her gait was fluid, too fluid, like something barely wearing the shape of a human. The lantern's glow caught something behind her, something that gleamed and bristled. The silk-draped ceiling moved.
Legs.
Not human legs. Long, spindly things, black as night, curling from her back. They twitched, each tipped with a needle-like claw, silently clicking against the stone as they flexed.
He threw the blade. It shot through the damp air like the bolt of a crossbow.
Eight centimeters before it struck her bare chest, it deflected off course.
She smiled at him.
A wave of nausea rolled through him. His vision blurred for an instant, the cave walls seeming to pulse. The air was too thick, too hot, the scent of decay pressing into his throat. The lantern wavered in his grip. He took a step back.
The spider woman advanced.
Her face had changed. The beauty was still there, but it was stretched, unnatural, her mouth too wide, her eyes too dark.
Another blade appeared in his hand.
His grip was unsteady. His footing was unsteady. Something was pulling at his body and slowing him down, things he could hardly feel.
The webs.
The executor cast a glance at the walls. The silk pulsed, shifting and unraveling in slow, rhythmic waves. Not just webs. Not just traps. They were alive. The cave was alive. It was no less a part of her than her skin and hair.
He slashed upward.
The blade met air.
Something wrapped around his wrist.
Not a hand. Not fingers. A strand of silk, impossibly strong, yanking him off balance.
The lantern fell.
The light died.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
He thrashed, but the silk would not break. Cutting through it, he heard his weapon clang against stone. The light from the dagger was enough to make out shapes of red and black.
Each turn of his body only granted him the same view of the spider's web.
She was nowhere to be seen, neither around nor above.
The silk shivered beneath him, and he realized—too late—that the floor was hardly one of solid stone.
Falling as it unraveled, he held a blade in both hands and decided he must cut apart her body no matter how little of an opening he would get.
He landed with only one arm, and he screamed.
The thread cut through his flesh like damp paper.
The jorogumo's face hovered above him, smiling, her black eyes reflecting the void.
Then, she whispered something, her voice like honey sliding over tongue.
A thread wrapped around each remaining limb, and his neck, before they were pulled firm.
It wasn't an unusual occurrence.
One month later, a boy stepped over his remains, walking behind his father and holding up a bright lamp.
The executor was teaching what he knew by doing what he knew. His body was tempered like unyielding armor, his bones steel and his flesh iron.
Someday, his son would be the same, or his son would be dead.
An executor cannot be weak.
Fourteen cocoons still remained, the boy carefully cut them open with a broad knife and freed the disappeared people. They had been preserved all this time, neither asleep nor awake, not dead and yet not quite alive.
The boy smelled something cloyingly sweet.
Webs coated the walls in sickly sheets, pulsing as if something beneath them still lived. Some were torn, tattered remnants of rebuilding and recuperation.
He held his hand to one of the walls, and felt the vibrations, felt them ever so more intense.
His fingers curled around a long, thin blade.
The air shifted.
A whisper of movement above him.
He did not look up.
Not yet.
She did not lunge. Not yet.
She studied him.
The same way she had studied the one who came before.
The same way a spider studies the fly.
She descended slowly, her long dark hair draping over pale shoulders. Her lips curled in amusement, red as fresh-spilled blood. Her limbs moved with impossible grace—too fluid, too light. The legs upon her back twitched, flexing, testing the air.
She was a natural predator of the human creature.
She had expected fear.
It was not there.
She had expected anger.
It was not there.
She had expected bloodlust.
It was not there.
There was nothing in this boy.
He lashed out with his swords and severed the silk threads surrounding him. He didn't stop there and began cutting every web in site, even the webs holding the cave together.
Hissing, the woman finally lunged at him, venomous fangs protruding from her mouth.
Her foremost leg was broken off before she realized it. A vial of oil was shattered against her body, its scent bursting through the air as its slick and slippery contents coated her skin.
The lantern's spark set her whole body ablaze.
Pure agony was all that the creature could experience as she trashed around the remains of her home, smashing through the stone walls of the cave, releasing a feminine howl as she burned.
The father watched for a while.
Then he left the boy alone to handle things himself.
The cave shuddered.
The silk twisted.
The jorogumo struck.
Faster than sight, faster than thought—her limbs lashing, a blur of black against the flickering light. The boy twisted, rolling beneath the strike, his blade slashing through the air.
It met flesh.
Not deep, not fatal—but it burned. It was a weapon that was used for hunting her kind. She had seen such things before, played with them, but none ever came close to reaching her.
Her twisting body wrenched the blade away from him.
He had another one. It drove deep, burying itself beneath her ribs.
The webs holding the floor together were ripped apart as they both fell. A dozen more blades sunk into her legs.
A dagger carved into her shoulder.
She could no longer move. She was every bit as helpless as one of her former meals.
She could see his face coming closer, golden eyes clear even in the dark. She could see her pathetic state reflected in them.
Then he whispered something to her.
"Will you stop?"
The spider woman tried to claw herself forward, but the feminine upper body had naught the strength to drag the monstrous lower body.
With a violent scream, she felt the blood in her body twist and condense.
"...Can you stop?"
Crimson like painted blood, as single red thread cut through the uncountable tunnels of the mountain, coiling towards the boy's neck.
He drove a blade into her head.
He drove a blade into her heart.
He drove a blade into her spine.
He carved away every last trace of her until there was nothing left.
When his father returned, they burned everything that remained before going back.
It was strange that the father would smile at the sight when the son would not.
When asked about Kotomine Shirou, those that encountered him, those that lived in the same side of the world as him had some choice things to say.
Some good, some bad, some of both.
However, there were some things that were very much agreed on.
He's a man of unyielding focus, unwavering commitment, and raw unbreakable will.
Shirou walked with his back straight and his stride steady. Like his father, he could cover a lot of distance just by walking, with surprisingly little time as well. It was something similar to a Michael Myers.
He had no interest in slowing down or stopping to smell the roses.
But she wouldn't let go.
"Please, just—just hear me out!" Her voice was breathless, her fingers curled tightly around the hem of his shirt, like if she let go, he'd disappear entirely.
Which he would.
Mentally filed in his head was already a new schema to make a break for it the next time a woman tries to honey trap him.
Actually, better add men to that method. One could never be too careful.
Her feet were dragging across the ground. She didn't weigh much, so even if her feet were dragging across the ground, she wasn't doing all that much to stop him.
Of course, if she used her demonic power, she could give him a little trouble, but they were in public.
Unfortunately, they were in public.
Somehow, this was all being seen as a lover's quarrel and not Satan's sister harassing a priest.
If he was lucky, what was happening here wouldn't reach the school rumor mill…
Shirou let out a sigh.
This was going to reach the school rumor mill.
If people started taking pictures, it would leave a trail that would hamper him in the long run. Destroying digital evidence wasn't anyone's forte at the Church.
He finally stopped and took a look over his shoulder.
"You're heavier than you look, Miss Gremory."
She trained routinely, so she had a little more muscle than most girls her age.
However, he wasn't going to point that out as the reason.
Rias's face became as red as her hair. Not only that, her entire body felt like it was warming up, from the ends of her ears to the tips of her toes. Lips parted on her own as she subconsciously backed up, holding a hand to her mortified face.
Even if she let go for only half a second, that was more than enough time for him to capitalize on this opportunity. He pushed off his heel and strode down the cobblestone path like a well timed machine.
Assuming no external variables, there was no way she'd be able to catch him again. The moment they were in a less populated area, he'd lose her before she realized it.
There were many external variables in the form of children chasing an excited puppy. He had to put full brakes on his movement to avoid trampling the little ones.
Rias, despite her flustered state, quickly snapped out of it. "H-Hey! Wait a second!" She lunged forward, her arms wrapping around his waist this time, clinging onto him with force that even the best rugby players aspire to.
She interlocked her fingers to secure her hold even more.
Shirou's eye twitched.
Now this looked bad.
He remembered something one of his mentors used to watch on the television. To the onlookers, it must have seemed like a dramatic romance scene straight out of a soap opera. A poor, heartbroken young maiden desperately clinging to the stoic, cold male lead she could probably do much better than if she tried.
A teenage girl fifteen meters away was already holding up her phone to take a picture.
Shirou discreetly ripped off one of the buttons of his shirt and flicked it towards the camera lenses, shattering it immediately with everyone none the wiser.
"Rias," he said, voice low and gentle as can be, "I'm going to give you exactly five seconds to explain yourself before I consider this an attack and act accordingly."
Rias stiffened against his back. "W-Wait, wait, wait! Just listen! I—"
"Four."
She yelped, "I know for a fact you're not seeing anyone! And it might surprise you, but I actually have never-"
"Three."
"Remember when you asked about that thing that was worrying me and it looked like I wasn't getting enough-"
"Two."
"Okay, okay! I'm being forced into a marriage against my will! There! I said it!"
Shirou finally stopped. He tilted his head slightly, just enough to glance at her again from the corner of his eye. "By whom?"
Rias hesitated, her grip loosening just a bit. "Um… well… it's complicated?"
"One."
She let out a groan of frustration and stomped her foot. "FINE! It's my family! Sort of! But not really! Okay, maybe a little! It's not like they want to do it either… Listen, just let me explain!"
Rias peeked one eye open.
Kotomine Shirou wasn't moving. She could feel his heart slowly beating. That probably meant he was fairly calm right now.
"I really need your help. Anything you can give."
"I…" he slowly began. "...will hear you out."
Seven more phone lenses broke that afternoon.
The house sat at the end of a quiet, unremarkable street. Two stories of faded wood, a sagging porch, and a single porch light that flickered inconsistently. It wasn't old enough to be considered historic, nor new enough to be comfortable. The family who lived there—a mother, a father, a daughter—had moved in months ago, swayed by affordability rather than charm or comfort. They never questioned the cold spots in the hallway or the way the floor creaked underfoot even when no one was walking. These things just happened in old houses.
At least, that was what they believed during the day.
When the sun was up, they lived their normal lives like any other family. Mornings were filled with yawns and coffee, rushed breakfasts and misplaced keys. The child played in the backyard, the parents busied themselves with work. If an eerie sense of unease ever lingered in the corners of their minds, it was dismissed as a fleeting thought. They did not know of anything that awaited them when the light faded.
So there was no need to fear and no need to leave.
It always began the same way.
As twilight deepened, the temperature in the house dropped. The walls, which had seemed so mundane hours earlier, now felt too close, as if the house itself were leaning inward. Shadows stretched long and unfamiliar, clinging to the edges of the furniture. The air grew heavy, thick with something unseen but undeniable.
Then came the noises.
Soft at first—a distant shuffle, a whispering creak. Easily dismissed as the settling and wear of an old house. But the sounds grew louder, closer. Footsteps pacing the upstairs hall when no one was there. The rhythmic tapping on the bedroom door, too deliberate to be a draft. The slow, measured breaths just beyond the threshold.
And the dreams.
Each night, the family dreamed of things that felt too vivid to be imagination. The mother saw herself wandering the house in the dark, unable to find the light switch, her hands slick with something warm. The father found himself locked in the basement, the single bulb above flickering as he heard scratching from the walls—something desperate, something inside trying to get out. And the child… the child dreamed of a face. Pale and hollow-eyed, peering from behind the closet door, grinning as it watched.
Sometimes they awoke screaming.
Other times, they woke with the suffocating weight of unseen hands pressing them into their mattresses.
But always, come morning, the memories snapped away.
When the first rays of sunlight slipped through the curtains, the living nightmare dissolved like mist. They would wake groggy, an inexplicable exhaustion weighing on them. They never spoke of it. There was nothing to say.
Because they didn't remember.
The cycle continued.
At dusk, the unease settled back in. The house grew colder, the walls seemed to shift. The feeling of being watched became unbearable. And then—inevitably—the nightmare claimed them once more.
One evening, the father stood at the top of the stairs, staring down into the darkened living room. His heart pounded in his chest, though he didn't know why. His hands trembled as he gripped the banister. He could hear it, just below—something breathing. Slow, deliberate inhalations. Not his wife, not his child. Something else. Something waiting.
He turned on the light.
The breathing stopped.
There was nothing there.
He exhaled a shaky breath, convinced it was just his mind playing tricks. But as he turned away, he caught a glimpse of movement in the reflection of the hallway mirror—something crawling up the stairs behind him, pale fingers dragging along the wood.
By morning, he wouldn't remember.
The mother, too, was ensnared. She woke in the dead of night to the sound of her closet door creaking open. In the darkness, she saw a figure standing just inside, watching. Her breath caught in her throat, her body frozen. She wanted to scream, to wake her husband, but no sound came. The figure tilted its head, as if amused.
Then it stepped forward.
The light from the hallway cast its face into view, and her mind recoiled from the sheer wrongness of it. The skin was too smooth, too stretched. The eyes were black pits, devoid of anything human. It smiled—a wide, unnatural grin that split its face too far.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
By morning, she wouldn't remember.
And the little girl—innocence did not grant immunity. The child sat in bed, clutching a stuffed animal, staring at the dark shape standing just inside the room. It had no face, no eyes, no mouth. Just a void where a face should be.
It whispered.
The child didn't understand the words, but they slithered into the mind like tendrils of ice, filling every corner with dread. The stuffed animal fell to the floor as the child reached out, unable to resist. Small fingers brushed against the thing's outstretched hand.
By morning, the child wouldn't remember.
The cycle repeated.
It wouldn't stop.
The family grew weary, their eyes shadowed, their movements sluggish. They never spoke of the nights, never questioned the bruises that appeared on their skin, the scratches that traced along their arms and legs. They never asked why their dreams felt too real, why the house seemed to exhale when darkness fell.
The thing in the house did not want them to remember.
But something changed.
One night, as the mother wandered the halls in that half-dreaming state, she passed the mirror in the upstairs hallway and froze. Her reflection did not move.
The realization struck like ice water, sending a shock of awareness through her mind. She knew, suddenly and undeniably, that this had happened before. Not just once. Not just twice. Countless nights. A cycle, repeating over and over, and each time the morning took it all away.
The reflection's lips moved, whispering a single word.
R̶̬̗̙͔͔͇̿͊̓̀̅͗̈́̉̿̈́͝e̷̛̖̖̮̟̟͕͔͐̅̏̈́̐̈́̽̚͝m̶̨͈̬͇̪̻̻͙͈̽͑̈̔̇e̶̢̞̯̗̩̼̝̙̥͙͙̜̱͍̠͇͚̽̄̃̒͐͋̓̕͝m̸̥̰̩̯̺̬̣̼̥̘̈́̽͐̌̐͗̎͂̄́̓̉͂̚̕͝b̷̹̞͕̹͍͇̈́͂̓͆̓̓͐̇̇̈͝ė̴̩̠̘̰̫͙̻̀ř̵̩̙͔̤͚̪͎̟̀̐̌
Memories surged forward. The creaking footsteps. The closet door. The breath on the back of her neck. The thing that smiled too wide. The hands pressing down, pushing, pulling, dragging. The thing that lived in the walls. The thing that whispered to the child. The thing that crawled behind her husband as he stood at the top of the stairs.
Her breath caught in her throat as she turned, expecting to see it standing there.
Nothing.
But now she knew. She knew it was here.
She ran to her husband, shaking him awake. His eyes were wide, confused, but as she gripped his arms, she saw it—awareness flickering behind his exhaustion. He remembered, too. The dreams, the voices, the thing that stalked them in the dark. The thing that had always been here.
The child stirred, sitting up in bed, eyes glassy with sudden understanding. The cycle was breaking, cracking like glass that had been heated and cooled too many times.
The house knew as well.
A deep groan echoed through the walls, a sound like wood splintering and stone grinding. The shadows stretched, contorted, writhing like living things. The air grew thick, pressing in on them.
A single whisper slithered through the house, low and guttural.
S̷̝͔̙̝̦̲̯̿̍̉̊̏̋͌̿͗͊̉̃̌̑ṫ̷̨̡̟̥̦̟͍͇̜͍͖͉͔̘̠̪̂̀͒̿͗͆̚͜͝a̷̢̻̮̦̤͍̳̮̼͚̪̲̥̥͙͙̔̃̀̒̀͗̉͒̒̒̒̽̚͘̚͜y̵̧̧̻̼̩̖̙̲̪͑̈́̓̽̉̏͒͋͂̊̈́̚͜ͅ ̷̛͔͚̏͒͋͛̽̂͒͋̆̂͝ẘ̸͚̯̺̙̝͒͗͗̂̊́̎͜͝i̶̧̺͔̝̤͔͍̙̰͈̖͖̳̖̐͌͑͐̈͆̇͛͜͝͠͝t̷̨̢̢̨̡͔̩̫̫͉̫̬̜̟̮̠̓͑ͅh̷͓͔͈̖̀ ̵̡͖̱̲͕̱̹̱͆̃͂̌̀̎͒͐̍̀̈́͛̈́̚͠ͅͅm̴̹̯̥͈͕͙̥͈̙̺̙̘̺͍̩͓̤̌́ȇ̷̢̬̞̰̦̤͔͍͔̗͓͈͓̙̾̒̇̇͋̂͆̓͛̆̇͐̏̍̕
The lights flickered and died.
Darkness swallowed them whole.
The morning came.
The sun rose, casting warm light through the windows. Birds chirped outside. The house was still.
The family woke, stretching, yawning, shaking off the heavy remnants of uneasy sleep. They nursed their bruises, new and old.
They did not remember.
The house let out a breath.
And the cycle began again.
And again…
And again…
And again…
The girl woke before the whispers began. Before the creaking of the walls and the slow, measured breath in the dark. Something had changed.
A girl stood in the room.
She wasn't like the other things that came at night. She wasn't hollow-eyed or grinning too wide. She wasn't a shadow that stretched too far or a whisper that coiled in the air. She was… real.
A little girl in church robes, hair the lightest grey and golden eyes like candles in the moonlight.
She came closer to the child and pressed a finger to her lips.
'Be quiet.'
The child listened.
She mouthed the words slowly, 'We have to go. Now.'
The child hesitated. They had never left at night. It wasn't allowed. The house wouldn't let them.
The girl reached out, gripping the child's wrist. Her hand was warm, and gentle.
'If we stay, you'll forget again.'
That was all it took. A flicker of something deep inside the child's mind—memories just out of reach. The closet door creaking open. The whispers. The thing with no face.
The child nodded.
They moved swiftly. The girl took the child's hand and led them out of the bedroom, padding down the hall with careful, silent steps.
The child's parents were being guided the same way by a boy in the simple vestments of a priest.
The moment their feet touched the stairs, the house woke fully.
The floorboards groaned, stretching and twisting beneath them. The walls pulsed, the wallpaper splitting open like flesh, revealing something dark and writhing underneath. The air filled with whispers, angry and desperate.
"̶̪̀ͅŞ̷̱̟̙̬̠̈́̽̓̈́̈́̑̆̔͘͠ͅT̸̮͑̿́͘A̷͎̮͗̓̀̐̂͝Ÿ̶̜̤̻̗̯̹̣͈́̒̽̈́̃͛̋̏́̈́̈́̓̔͝ͅ.̴̛̮̺̙̮̠̰́́͐̎̓̃̔͊̋̔̒ͅ"̴̤̲̐̾͗͋̌̈̓
A force slammed into them like a gust of wind, knocking the mother back against the wall. The boy caught her before she fell, gritting his teeth as he pulled her forward.
The girl tightened her grip on the child, shoving them forward.
"̶̪̀ͅŞ̷̱̟̙̬̠̈́̽̓̈́̈́̑̆̔͘͠ͅT̸̮͑̿́͘A̷͎̮͗̓̀̐̂͝Ÿ̶̜̤̻̗̯̹̣͈́̒̽̈́̃͛̋̏́̈́̈́̓̔͝ͅ.̴̛̮̺̙̮̠̰́́͐̎̓̃̔͊̋̔̒ͅ"̴̤̲̐̾͗͋̌̈̓
The house was fighting them.
The door at the bottom of the stairs stretched upward, warping, elongating, pulling away from them. The hallway stretched impossibly long, the front door shrinking into the distance, twisting out of reach.
A hand—long, skeletal, impossibly thin—burst from the wall, grasping at the father's leg. He stumbled, his face twisting in horror as fingers dug into his skin.
The boy moved like a knife through the dark.
A flash of silver. A whisper of steel. The fingers hit the floor, severed.
The house screamed.
The boy's swords—twin blades, sharp and pure—gleamed in the dim light, their edges humming with something more than steel.
They ran harder.
The girl reached the door first, dragging the child with her. She slammed her hand against the knob—cold, slick, writhing—as if the house itself was trying to pull her back inside. She wrenched it open, the night air rushing in.
The cold was real. The stars, the wind, the scent of damp earth.
It was all real.
How long has it been, since they had all been outside?
The girl shoved the child through first, then turned to grab the mother's arm, yanking her through. The father stumbled out behind her, gasping.
The boy was last, his swords raised, backing out as the shadows lashed at him.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, he kicked the door shut behind him.
The house screamed.
The girl didn't wait. She dragged the mother forward, leading them all toward the car parked at the curb. The keys were already in the ignition. The door was already open. As if they had done this before.
The family was dazed, confused, trembling—but they obeyed. They climbed in, the child pressing close to the mother, the father gripping the door closed with white-knuckled hands.
The girl slammed the driver's side door shut, twisting the key.
The engine roared to life.
The house moved.
It should have been impossible.
Wood and glass should not bend. Beams should not stretch like fingers. The porch should not crawl toward them, the railing splitting open like jaws, the entire structure pulling itself forward, dragging, heaving, chasing.
But it did.
The house came after them.
The girl didn't hesitate. She floored the gas just as her brother caught up from the rear.
Tires screeched. Gravel spat from under the wheels. The car lurched forward, rocketing down the dark, empty street.
The house followed.
Its walls convulsed, its foundation uprooting. Windows shattered outward, spewing glass like teeth. It lurched onto the street, its frame breaking and rebuilding with each monstrous movement.
Streetlights flickered, dying in its wake. The pavement cracked beneath it. The whispering voices rose to a deafening scream, clawing at the car, slamming into it like a storm of shadows.
The mother sobbed. The father gasped for air. The child clung to the seat, eyes wide with terror.
The girl didn't slow down.
The boy unbuckled his seatbelt.
The girl glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
He nodded.
She pressed the gas harder.
He opened the door.
The wind howled through the car as he stepped out onto the moving pavement, his swords gleaming under the flickering streetlights.
The house loomed behind him, its monstrous form stretching, its walls breathing, its front door yawning open into a pit of blackness.
The boy faced it, his grip tightening on his blades.
And then he moved.
He was fast—faster than anything human should be. A blur of silver and shadow, tearing through the tendrils that lashed out from the house. His swords cut through wood and glass, through beams and walls, slicing the thing apart piece by piece.
The house screamed.
It tried to rebuild, but he was relentless. He severed every grasping limb, every snapping board, cutting and cutting and cutting until the thing that had once been a cursed dwelling was nothing but splintered wreckage littering the street.
The whispers faltered.
The shadows writhed… then died.
The remains of the house crumbled inward, the last of its form rotting into nothing.
Silence was all that was left..
The boy exhaled, sheathing his swords.
The girl slowed the car, turning to look back. The street was empty. Nothing remained.
She met the boy's gaze.
Gold looked into gold.
He reached forward, stepping back into the car, and rubbed her head gently, if clumsily. The boy locked the door behind him and buckled his sister's seatbelt.
The child remembered this, when she woke up in the morning.
Crystal chandeliers reflected the golden afternoon light off delicate porcelain cups, while the low hum of classical music weaved through murmured conversations. The aroma of fresh espresso and caramelized sugar hung in the air like an expensive perfume.
Rias sat across from Shirou at a corner table, away from prying eyes—though not nearly far enough to be rid of the occasional sideways glance from curious customers. She stirred her cappuccino absentmindedly, her delicate fingers tracing circles around the foam as she gathered her thoughts.
Shirou, meanwhile, was already on his third espresso. He sat upright, one hand lazily resting against the table, the other holding up the tiny cup between his fingers. His expression was unreadable, his amber eyes watching her like an eagle.
She sighed. "I know you think this is stupid."
"I believe many things are stupid," he replied evenly. "But go on."
Rias took a deep breath, "You already probably know this, but most of the seventy-two pillars that make up our nobility in the Underworld are already extinct. As of now, I'm the only official heir of the Gremory family now that my brother is a Satan."
Shirou sat stiffly, arms crossed. "So," he said at last, voice cool and measured, "your family is trying to marry you off."
Rias exhaled heavily, leaning back against the velvet-cushioned chair. "To continue the bloodline. It's not just my family. It's a whole thing. Politics, traditions, noble responsibilities... You know how it is."
He didn't.
She groaned at his blank stare and dragged a hand down her face. "Of course you wouldn't care about noble traditions."
"I care when they involve me." He finally picked up his coffee, taking a small sip before setting it down again. "Why bring this to me?"
Gesturing to him, she mumbled something with a small blush on her cheeks, "You're… you… an exorcist…"
"I'm not a- nevermind."
"Both families agreed that if I beat my fiance, that blond guy you saw the other day, in a rating game, then the engagement's called off. Devils value strength above anything else, so proving your strength grants you more privileges.
"You're serious," he finally said, closing his eyes tightly.
"Dead serious," she muttered, resting her chin in her hand.
He shrugged, "Well, you're fairly strong yourself, so I'm sure with some training and-"
"The Phenex Family's inherent power is immortality."
A small pause. Then a slow, knowing exhale. "...Ah."
"He can regenerate from any wound and can create flames that burn through flesh. Looking at it objectively, he's won every Rating Game he was in. Even against his fellow high class devils, he's an unbeatable opponent."
In other words, those families weren't giving her a genuine chance to end that marriage. If two sides that are equal in power fight, the side that won't be injured will obviously come out the winner. That's common sense.
"The only documented ways to defeat a Phenex is to either crush them with overwhelming power or to continue beating them down until their mental fatigue accumulates," Rias finished.
She studied Kotomine Shirou's face for any reaction.
There was no surprise or fear, not a speck of uncertainty.
Rias wasn't expecting those emotions.
For her own feelings, he was a far more frightening opponent than any high-class devil she had ever met. He never showed overwhelming strength or an unbeatable ability. He simply gave off the pure sense of someone who would fight and win if he had to.
Shirou pieced together what the heiress was seeking from him.
He leaned back with his leg crossed.
"You're asking me how to kill an immortal man," he stated flatly.
"Of course not," she laughed. "Just how to beat one."
Rias finished her cappuccino, "but let's go shopping first."
It was well past midnight in an old town when a man not yet past his thirties stepped out of the dim, quiet haze of a late open bar, blue neon lights searing their lettering into his eyes. Leaning onto his shoulder, reeking of booze every bit as much as he did, was his friend.
A sloppy hand dragged over the rough stubble of his red face.
They drank and drank until their heads nearly hit the table. They were getting worse at managing their alcohol with each passing year.
He had never been happier, so happy it almost felt delusional. He could be fired or get hit by a car, and he'd get through it without a care.
It was a monumental stepping stone in his life.
He was getting married, married to the prettiest girl he could've met in this world, a girl he had known since childhood when he was drawing into the dirt with fallen branches.
Cold air pressed into his skin while the lingering heat raked down his throat into his stomach. Too much to drink in too little time, but he was too young to raise caution just yet. If he wasn;t careful, he'd end up an old man with a spoiled liver.
Now it was time to stumble home.
Eventually making it to the trail, his friend was finally able to walk on his own feet without twisting his way into a wall.
They talked about happy and stupid things, things that they wanted, and things that they were going to do one day. If asked later what they were talking about, they wouldn't be able to say.
Old yellow lights flickered and buzzed with the cicadas.
Wooden boards creaked as they always did when they walked across the old bridge.
He heard a splashing from the water and thought to himself that it had been a long time since he had seen someone go fishing here. It was so much more common when he was young.
Perhaps it was just the changing of the times, but in the back of his mind, he hoped that this town would never change too much, that it would be the same place he grew up in.
This engaged man mentioned something like that to his friend, slurring the words and putting them less eloquently than they were in his mind, but eloquence matters little when talking with feeling to a drunk man.
No response.
Not even a hum or a mumble.
After a minute, he called out his name again.
No response.
Sighing, the man chuckled to himself, almost doubling over. They were really too old now to be playing such jokes on each other.
Would he grab his shoulders now or yell into his ear?
Both, he would definitely do both. One would expect a police officer to be more mature, but perhaps that's why his friend was fairly popular around here. He was probably going to get hitched soon as well.
After an hour, it was no longer a joke.
The trail was coming to an end, and he could make out his neighborhood from where he stood. Aside from those lighting the street, most of the lights were off. It was getting really late, and he'd have to meet up with relatives for lunch the next day.
His friend still hadn't shown back up.
The phone call went straight to voicemail.
Looking behind him, he saw nothing but pitch black after ten meters.
Cicadas rubbed their wings together and spun together their unending orchestra, a melody worse than the silence of the woods.
There was something his friend mentioned when they met at the bar. It was only because he was late that he even brought it up.
An unidentified body in the river.
Was it the river they passed on the way back home?
Walking quieter but not slower, the young man couldn't stop looking behind him. The second time he tried calling with his phone, the battery died. The rectangular icon blinked red before the screen suddenly shut off.
Only the rice fields remained between the dwellings and where he stood.
Now, he stood outside the woods, tingles running across his shoulders and down his back.
Something creaked behind him, or rather… something creaked above him, something in the branches.
Running further into the open field, his shoes became filthy with mud he would've normally stepped over, damp with puddles he would've normally avoided.
Finally, he felt safe enough to see what was in the woods.
Wind blew strongly through the tall branches of the trees. Listening closely, he found that the rushing of the leaves often covered up the rattle of where they rested.
Being cautious, he kept a hand over his shoulder as if something would grab him there. His house had a landline, he would call the station when he got there.
Each step through the neighborhood was loud and clear, the only sound there was.
Sweat rolled down his back even though it was freezing winter.
The dullness of alcohol had long since worn off.
He screamed out when something dark and inhuman appeared out of nowhere. His body hit the ground, skin scraping off against the rough concrete. Blood and tissue stinged when exposed to the blistering air.
Hissing in his direction, the stray cat ran off.
It was much more alarmed than he was.
Only when he picked himself up and brushed himself off, did something tug at his collar, so gently that he thought it was the wind.
'He is home. He is safe.'
Those were his thoughts when his feet left the ground.
He would've wanted to think of those grumpy parents that were always worrying about him. He would've wanted to think of that beautiful woman he was going to marry. He would've wanted to have thought of anything else no matter how random or inconsequential.
But those were not the final thoughts in his head before it was bitten off, only a vague understanding that something important was being left behind in this world.
The hand that grabbed him drew him close to the sky, much closer than the trees, so much that the streetlights couldn't possibly cast a shadow.
For ten seconds, he was still aware of what was happening.
His head rolled down a throat with no flesh before hitting ribs that encased no stomach.
In the darkness, he could still see his body being held like a cup over an open mouth without flesh.
The blood poured down.
Red painted over white.
The betrothed man, his brother in law, and the monster had their final drinks that night.
One week later, on the day of the wedding, a stranger barely past the age of childhood stepped off the train passing its town.
When he stepped back on, he left behind a mountain of shattered bone shards on the bottom of the lake.
Four minutes, twenty-two seconds.
That's the amount of time it took for him to dismantle an immortal devil down to every one of their flaws and vulnerabilities.
Twenty-two seconds was what he needed to construct the framework.
Four minutes was what he needed to work out how to explain it down to the fundamental principles.
Throughout his life, he infrequently had the luxury of knowing what he would be facing. Of course, there was the choice to lay low and conduct the proper investigative measure ahead of time.
Anyone would want to engage on their own terms.
But what if the threat was immediate?
If he waited, someone could die.
If they died, that would be his fault. The suffering of their loved ones would be caused by his inaction. So when there is a threat, he must act without hesitation.
Thus, adapting to a torrent of known and unknown variables became second nature to him.
Certain creatures become more dangerous when they are harmed. Attacking them with extreme attacks that fail to finish them off will only result in a loss of stamina as personal injuries and fatigue accumulate.
The best way to handle this situation is to attack without harming. In other words, take advantage of the target's own biological mechanisms to shut them down.
Kotomine Shirou knows of four means to apply this.
He is capable of three.
The first and most simple is depriving them of oxygen. This can be done using the environment, such as drowning the target, or a grappling technique can be used based on the target's build and body structure. The rear-naked choke is a common tool for such an effect.
The second requires a higher degree of training, producing a vasovagal response by striking the nerves. Strikes to certain areas like the jaw, neck, or base of the skull can trigger a nervous system reaction, temporarily disrupting blood flow and causing the subject to faint. If the strike is neither too forceful, nor mistargeted, there is no harm nor injury.
The third demands an extreme level of speed and precision, to apply blunt force to the head without creating a concussion. A well-placed but not overly forceful strike to the jaw can jar the brain enough to cause a flash knockout where the brainstem momentarily shuts down to protect itself.
The fourth is disrupting the body's natural flow of energy by striking the pressure points. It necessitates a certain mental and physical talent many lack, and applying it across a plethora of diverse organisms raises the bar exponentially.
Overall, they would be a horribly efficient method of fighting for nearly any devil as opposed to how they would naturally behave. Creatures that could utilize demonic power and flight instead forcing themselves into a risky range to apply harmless attacks? They'd be crippling their greater offensive capabilities. These were the skills of someone without such innate power to rely on, skills that require perfect precision based on endless training.
But against an immortal, it would still close the gap in this case.
They had relocated to a bakery in the heart of the city's best shopping district. Shirou took a bite out of a sweet bread that was still warm to the touch. With a mouth half full, he held up two fingers. "I'll show you the second and third methods, principles and all. Since you won't be able to perfectly replicate it, you'll need multiple openings and attempts with a degree of luck for it to work."
He casually gestured to her hands that were currently holding a brioche donut. "It's fine to use your normal method of attack on his limbs to hold him off, but if you can't harm any of the areas that causes shutdown, or his regeneration will kick in and undo your efforts."
Rias didn't say anything.
It felt as if she were sinking.
He was overwhelming.
The moon hung bloated and pale over the rice fields, silver light drenching the stalks in a ghostly shimmer. The wind carried the distant croak of frogs, the whisper of water, and beneath it—something else. A low, rhythmic rattle. Like bones grinding together.
The water was still as a grave.
A boy stood at the edge of the lake, wearing worn out clothes that were too big for him, a white shirt already coming loose at the threads.
He stood still without moving a muscle for hours.
In situations of mass death, such as famines or wars, individuals could not receive proper funeral rites and thus were unable to move on after death. As their bodies decayed, their souls became twisted with wrath and resentment towards the living. Their souls and bones would merge into one enormous being, a monstrous starving skeleton
When it finds its victim, it decapitates it at night and drinks its blood. This continues until the resentment of every soul within it is finally satiated.
A skeletal hand breached the surface, fingers like iron rods ending in jagged tips, clawing their way free. Then came another, and another. The lake trembled, black water spilling over as the Gashadokuro dragged itself from the depths. It loomed, a towering colossus of yellowed bone, its empty sockets burning with malevolent fire. The massive skull tilted, its mouth creaking open as if to taste the air.
The boy did not flinch.
The Gashadokuro's jaw unhinged, splitting wide, an abyss of gnashing teeth. Then it screamed—a howl of hunger and death, a sound meant to shatter minds and leave souls paralyzed in terror. Birds scattered from the trees, and the rice fields trembled as if bowing before an approaching god of death.
When living eyes met dead sockets, every rotted soul felt the same thing.
A shudder.
Steel flashed.
His first blade, a wickedly curved wakizashi, carved through the mist, aiming for the Gashadokuro's exposed wrist. A crack echoed through the fields as bone splintered, fingers snapping backward from the force of the blow. The monster recoiled, its injured hand jerking away.
But the boy was already gone.
He slid low, his second blade, a longer katana, slicing across the Gashadokuro's ankle joint. Another crack—bone chipping, fractures webbing along the ancient skeleton's structure.
The Gashadokuro lashed out, an arm the size of a tree trunk swinging toward him. The boy vaulted, flipping over the incoming strike with an inhuman grace. His feet barely touched the wet earth before he launched himself again, twisting mid-air as his wakizashi found its mark—plunging deep into the creature's clavicle.
A deafening screech tore through the night. The Gashadokuro flailed, trying to shake him loose, but the boy clung tight, gritting his teeth now.
It felt pain.
It felt.
His naginata struck next, hacking into its ribcage like a butcher carving into fresh meat. Bone dust spilled like mist, the monster's massive form shuddering. But it did not fall. No, this thing was ancient, its bones fused by the agony of countless souls, and it would not die so easily.
It was already dead.
The Gashadokuro roared, its wounded arm snapping out with impossible speed. The boy had no room to dodge—fingers closed around him, skeletal claws locking his body in a crushing grip.
He ignored the pain. It was only brief.
His left hand twisted, three blessed blades buried themselves in bone. Such things are poison to the damned. He drove them deeper, twisting the blades until the cracks widened. The Gashadokuro hissed, but did not release him.
The boy let out a slow breath into the freezing air.
His body jerked unnaturally, muscles convulsing, and then—a snap. His arm bent wrong, bones popping from their sockets as he slipped free of the monster's grasp. He landed lightly, rolling once before steadying himself. His arm hung limply for only a moment before he wrenched it back into place with a sickening crack.
The souls felt hunger deepen with unease.
His next attack had no restraint.
The jian buried itself between ribs, but this time, the boy did not stop at a single strike. His blade became a whirlwind, carving, hacking, shattering. With each cut, bone splintered, snapping apart like dry twigs. The Gashadokuro howled, trying to strike back, but the boy was everywhere.
His falchion severed a vertebra.
His seax sheared through a forearm.
Another strike. And another.
The skeleton collapsed to one knee, its massive body sagging as it lost its balance. It had no voice left to scream, only a ghastly rattling, like wind rushing through hollow skulls.
The boy was upon it in seconds. He climbed its spine like a spider, digging his endless blades into sockets for leverage, until he reached the thing's skull.
It tried to shake him off. He did not let go.
His odachi came down, stabbing into one empty eye socket, plunging deep. He twisted. The light in the Gashadokuro's eye dimmed. Its limbs spasmed.
But it wasn't enough.
The boy reached down, grabbing the monster's massive jaw. His fingers, slick with blood and bone dust, found purchase.
Then, with a sickening crack, he tore the skull free from its spine.
The body collapsed instantly, bones crumbling, breaking apart into useless fragments. The monstrous core, a twisted abomination of bone and rotten flesh, nearly half the boy's size, still twitched in his hands, the remnants of its spirit clinging desperately to existence. Its burning eyes flickered, dimming, but not yet gone.
It looked at him.
And for the first time in centuries, the starving skeleton felt fear.
Kotomine Shirou had endured many things in life.
Smashed through the earth by beasts.
Poisoned by witches.
Drowned underwater by curses.
And yet, standing here, arms rigid at his sides, wearing the fourth track jackets picked out for him that was functionally no different from the previous three, he was certain that he'd rather be right back out in the field than put up with this.
He was sure that he'd never have to find himself in such a place ever again.
The boutique reeked of opulence, the scent of fine leather and imported cologne saturating the air. Rows upon rows of immaculately arranged suits and high-end fashion pieces lined the walls, each price tag probably carrying enough digits to shoot a hole in his wallet and bury it sixteen meters below the ocean.
And in the middle of it all stood Rias Gremory, her arms crossed, a satisfied smile on her lips as she admired her work.
"See?" She tilted her head, her crimson hair cascading over one shoulder. "You can pull off something other than a button down."
Shirou pulled down the zip of the navy blue spring edition tracksuit he had been forced into, his expression utterly neutral. "This is a waste of time."
Rias waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, come on. You might as well enjoy yourself a little." She circled him, keenly scanning every inch of the tailored outfit. "You'll break down if all you do is work."
He looked down at himself. "I don't see how this is necessary."
"It's completely necessary," Rias countered. "One, because I don't know if you even own any casual clothes. Course, if you want, you could pick something out for me instead."
"You should spend this time practicing the movements I showed you. What happened to all that desperation?"
"I'm dealing with it."
"That so?"
"Yeah, so don't worry. You've done enough."
He doesn't press further.
An hour and six outfits later, they had relocated to a cinema next to the city's best shopping mall. Nothing new was playing.
The movie theater is quieter than the rest of the mall. Dim. The scent of popcorn thickens in the air. She picks the seats—off-center, close enough for the screen to feel too large. He settles beside her, stiff in the cushioned chair.
Trailers roll past, loud and bright. She nudges his elbow once, pointing to a scene heavy with explosions. Her expression is playful, conspiratorial. His face doesn't change.
When the movie starts, she leans back, ankles tucked beneath her seat. She holds her drink in both hands, sipping slowly.
His hands stay empty.
At one point, a joke lands. A good one—sharp and unexpected. Her laughter escapes before she can stop it. She glances sideways, waiting. His face is pale in the flickering light, unreadable.
She stops laughing after that.
By the time the credits roll, the cup in her hands is empty. The ice inside has melted, water sloshing dully when she moves. He stands without a word, leading the way out.
The air outside is colder than before. Night presses close, heavy and quiet.
A few steps from the exit, she spots a cat, small and fluffy, dark enough to blend into the shadows. It huddles near a patch of weeds by the curb. Its eyes catch the light, shining briefly before it lowers its head to groom one paw.
She crouches slowly, one hand stretched out, patient. The cat flicks its tail, pausing mid-lick.
It doesn't run. Not yet.
When she looks back, he isn't watching the cat. His hands are in his pockets, shoulders straight. His breath comes out in faint plumes, blurred by the dark.
They walk in silence toward the edge of the parking lot. Her steps are lighter—half a pace ahead. Every few seconds, she glances over, like she might say something.
She doesn't.
When they reach the street, she stops. The wind picks up, tugging strands of hair across her face.
He doesn't stop.
His pace stays even, steady, as he crosses the pavement and disappears into the shadow of the next block.
She stands there a moment longer. Still.
There was something that she wanted to know, something that she wanted to witness, something that she wanted to repay.
The girl touches the boy's shirt and holds on to it. It was late. She knew that he was going back to wherever he was staying in this town, somewhere alone.
She looks around and sees something.
It was nothing special—warm lights behind fogged-up windows, a crooked sign above the door with a few letters burned out. The smell of fried food and something sweet drifted into the street. Without waiting, she pulled the door open and stepped inside, still holding on to him.
He hesitated. The wind had picked up again, a light breeze pulling his sleeves. With a shallow breath, he followed her.
The restaurant buzzed with quiet conversation and the clink of silverware. A heater hummed softly, cutting the damp chill. She chose a booth near the window, sliding in first and leaving the other side open for him. He sat down without a word.
Menus lay between them, but she didn't pick hers up. Instead, she leaned back against the red vinyl seat and studied the room. There was a faint smudge of ketchup on the edge of the table. Someone had left a napkin folded into the shape of a swan on the sill. She smiled, almost to herself, and pushed her hair back again.
He lifted his menu and scanned it without interest. His fingers rested too tightly on the edges, pressing creases into the paper.
When the waitress arrived, she ordered quickly, the words tumbling out like she had known them all along. Something simple—nothing too heavy. She glanced at him expectantly.
He chose something unexpectedly spicy, enough to burn the back of one's throat. He didn't seem the type.
"Hey, try smiling for a second."
The edges of his eyes were always dark and tired, bringing even more attention to how intense the gold of his irises were.
His expression became more tired as he dismissed her words.
"You did it for Grayfia, though you were faking it then too."
"She was nice. I didn't want to be rude."
'So it was fake afterall.' It wasn't a surprise but… it was a little sad.
His attitudes and emotions were straightforward, but he doesn't show his feelings on his face. His behavior was gentle, and he was always refraining from conflict, but sometimes—sometimes it made his actions worrying.
She wondered, for what reason would Kotomine Shirou smile? What would he need to accomplish to hold pride in himself? What would he need to do to be happy?