To Inherit the Ashes of Humanity's Final Order

by Kizumet

Hachiman Hikigaya was perfectly fine drifting through high school, avoiding unnecessary drama, and keeping his expectations low enough to dodge disappointment. But all of that goes out the window when he wakes up in a place called Chaldea—a secret organization filled with mages, cryptic technology, and the looming threat of an apocalypse. Crossposted on SpaceBattles.

1. Prologue

Darkness. The standard issue kind you get behind closed eyelids, boring and absolute. Silence. The familiar background hum of nothing that fills the void when you're actively trying not to think. Typical Tuesday afternoon lull, probably.

–And then, a noise. Not external, but scraping directly against the inside of my skull. A sterile, synthesized drone, like a computer meticulously failing a self-diagnostic and broadcasting the results telepathically.

«BASE SEQUENCE: HUMAN GENOME CONFIRMED»

Genome? Who talks like that outside of poorly dubbed sci-fi? My thoughts felt like wading through sludge, slow and resisting effort. Was this Zaimokuza finally achieving telepathy after one too many all-night light novel binges? The implication was deeply disturbing.

«Alignment: Good-neutral.»

Good-Neutral? What is this, a personality quiz run by robots? Are they quantifying my apathy level? Seems generous, frankly. I'd probably file myself under 'Reluctantly Cooperative When Threatened With Social Interaction.'

«Welcome to the Data Center for the Future of Humankind.»

Right. 'Data center.' Because 'creepy disembodied voice in the void' wasn't ominous enough. And 'future of humankind'? Sounds suspiciously like the kind of empty corporate slogan slapped on motivational posters in soulless offices. My future usually involved calculating the optimal route to the least crowded vending machine.

«This is the Security Organization for the Preservation of Humanity, Chaldea.»

Chaldea. The name landed with a dull thud in my consciousness, completely unknown. Sounded vaguely important, like something that should have its own convoluted conspiracy theory subreddit. Security Organization? Preservation of Humanity? It all screamed 'overfunded black budget project run by people with questionable grips on reality.'

My brain felt sluggish, wires crossed and sparking uselessly. Had I drifted off in the clubroom again? Listening to Yukinoshita's quiet rustling pages or Yuigahama's endless chatter about… whatever topic had snagged her attention this week? No. That didn't track. The suffocating sterility of this non-place felt nothing like the familiar scent of old tea and painstakingly maintained silence.

My last real memory was… sharp. Cold. Snow falling silently outside the window of that Ferris wheel carriage. The quiet, rhythmic grind of the machinery. Yuigahama's voice, trembling but pushing forward, loaded with feelings I wasn't equipped to process, let alone reciprocate cleanly. Yukinoshita's gaze, ice-sharp but somehow fragile beneath the surface, mirroring the impossible request hanging heavy in the air between us... Something genuine.

A knot tightened in my chest, an uncomfortable echo of vulnerability I tried to keep buried deep. That desperate, pathetic plea. That raw, unfiltered wanting. It felt like a lifetime ago, yet the ache was immediate, stark against this clinical darkness.

That was then. Confusing, painful, and terrifyingly real. This… this is now. But where the hell is 'now'? And how did I trade awkward emotional breakthroughs for budget sci-fi narration?

«Fingerprint, voiceprint, and DNA authentication cleared.»

«Magical Circuit assessment complete.»

The synthesized voice bulldozed right over my burgeoning existential crisis. Authentication? By whom? And Magical Circuits?

Absolutely not.

No. That's… that crossed a line. That wasn't just sci-fi jargon; that was pure, unadulterated Zaimokuza Yoshiteru chuunibyou nonsense. The kind of term he'd dramatically declare after mistaking a particularly vivid dream for arcane enlightenment. Had I finally snapped? Was this the prologue to my own embarrassing descent into delusion? This couldn't be real. It was too stupid. Too theatrical. Reality is usually far more mundane in its awfulness.

«Hachiman Hikigaya confirmed.»

My mental gears ground to a halt. My name? How the hell...? This wasn't some online quiz I'd absentmindedly clicked through while pretending to do homework. Who had access to that information? Did Hiratsuka-sensei finally trade my personal data for a lifetime supply of ramen coupons? The sheer, invasive totality of the privacy breach was almost impressive.

«You are recognized as a member of the primates.»

…Primates. Well, isn't that just stellar. Thanks for the biological reminder, HAL 9000's less charismatic cousin. Glad to confirm I haven't devolved into amoebic sludge just yet. Though, honestly, some days that feels like a lateral move at best. Komachi would find this hilarious. 'See, Onii-chan? Even the creepy void voice knows you're basically just a sophisticated monkey!' High praise, indeed.

An icy wave of wrongness washed over me, prickling at the base of my neck. The comforting, featureless dark wasn't comforting anymore. It felt thin, unreal. And just as that thought surfaced, the abyss tore.

Not a gentle dissolve, but an explosion of sterile, blinding white light. The void stretched, warped, snapping into the impossible geometry of an endless hallway. Stark white, clinical, utterly devoid of features except for its oppressive length. It felt less like a place and more like placeholder graphics for a reality that hadn't finished rendering.

Instinct screamed: Move. Back away. Put distance between yourself and... whatever this is. I tried. Sent the mental command: Legs, function. Arms, brace.

Nothing.

My body remained utterly still, locked in place like a poorly posed statue. Not heavy, not asleep – just completely, infuriatingly unresponsive. Like my brain's signals were hitting a digital firewall, denied access to the hardware they were supposed to control. –I can't move... The realization hit with a dull, rising panic.

«Nice to meet you. You're our final visitor today.»

The voice returned, infuriatingly chipper. Nice to meet me? While I'm paralyzed and trapped in a Windows default screen background? And 'final visitor'? That has the same welcoming energy as a guillotine operator saying, "Next!" It's the kind of phrase designed to sound innocuous while dripping with unspoken threat. Standard procedure for suspicious organizations, I supposed.

I wanted to retort, to unleash a torrent of sarcasm sharp enough to cut through this artificial reality. Something about hospitality standards, maybe question if 'visitor' was code for 'unwilling test subject'. But my jaw wouldn't unlock. My throat felt tight, useless. It wasn't just paralysis; it was complete systemic lockdown. Worse than sleep paralysis, because at least then your body has the excuse of being mostly unconscious. This was conscious imprisonment inside my own useless meat-shell.

«We hope you enjoy your time here.»

Enjoy? A silent, bitter scoff echoed in my skull. Enjoy what, exactly? The existential dread? The sudden inability to twitch my own nose? The creeping suspicion I've been kidnapped by rogue AI researchers with a penchant for dramatic flair? My definition of 'enjoyment' involves a can of MAX Coffee, a quiet room, and the distinct absence of disembodied voices dictating my immediate future. None seemed to be on the menu. The sheer arrogance of demanding enjoyment from someone robbed of basic autonomy… it was almost admirable in its villainy.

«Another 180 seconds is needed to complete the admission process.»

«Enjoy a simulated battle while you wait.»

Wait, what? Simulated battle? My non-existent blood ran cold. Just as I was processing the sheer absurdity—

Crack.

A spike of agony lanced through my skull, sharp and blinding. It wasn't physical, not exactly, but an intrusion. Something cold and analytical wormed its way into the folds of my brain, mapping connections, forcing pathways that weren't there before. Like having my skull pried open and rewired by a cosmic electrician with shaky hands and poor documentation. Then came the fire – a searing wave that surged through every nerve ending, setting my entire consciousness ablaze.

?!

The pain was absolute, overwhelming. It drowned thought, leaving only the raw, visceral need to scream. But still, nothing came out. Just silent, agonizing fire consuming me from the inside out. This wasn't just a simulation kicking in. This felt like a violation. A forced installation of malware directly onto my mental hard drive.

The internal fire abruptly subsided, leaving behind a hollow ache and the lingering metallic taste of ozone. Then, the voice again, clinical and detached:

«Regulation: Senior.»

Senior? Senior what? Did I unknowingly get promoted in some imaginary hierarchy during my forced neural remodeling?

«Contract Servants: Saber, Lancer, Archer.»

Contract Servants. Right. Because 'potentially lethal digital constructs forced upon me in this simulation' didn't sound dramatic enough. More terminology ripped straight from Zaimokuza's lexicon. Was I supposed to be impressed? Feel powerful? All I felt was a deepening sense of absurdity and the phantom agony throbbing behind my eyes.

Just as the words faded, the sterile white hallway dissolved. Not smoothly, but like a cheap projection sputtering out. The stark lines blurred, colors bleeding into existence where only white void had been. Rolling hills sprang up, carpeted in unnaturally vibrant green grass. Cracked stone pillars, looking suspiciously like prefabricated ruins meant to evoke 'ancient battlefield,' dotted the landscape under a sky painted a lurid, artificial crimson. It looked like a low-effort asset flip for some fantasy MMO.

The air changed, too. Gone was the sterile nothingness, replaced by a heavy, charged stillness. Like the air before a thunderstorm, thick with ozone and the promise of violence. My body, still not entirely under my own command, shifted its weight slightly, muscles tensing in anticipation of… something. Something I shouldn't know how to anticipate.

Then, another jolt – less pain this time, more like a data packet slamming into my mental inbox. A sudden, unwelcome connection bloomed in my mind, branching out towards… them.

Three figures flickered into existence before me, coalescing from shimmering particles like faulty holograms struggling to hold form. They weren't projected; they felt… solid. Real. Yet fundamentally otherworldly.

And the sickening part? The moment they appeared, a jolt of recognition, sharp and undeniable, shot through me. Not memory, not deduction—just instant, ingrained knowing. Like seeing a reflection and identifying yourself before consciously processing the image.

These weren't people. Humans didn't shimmer with barely contained power or carry themselves with the weight of centuries etched into their very being. They were... something else. Legends pulled from myth? Characters from a story made manifest? Whatever they were, they radiated an aura that screamed danger and power far beyond any human limit.

I shouldn't know them. Logically, impossible. Emotionally, terrifying.

But I do. The certainty was absolute, chilling. A violation of my own ignorance.

Another sharp pulse behind my eyes, and my thoughts weren't entirely my own anymore. Foreign data streams flooded my consciousness – tactics, strengths, weaknesses – overlaying my own analytical tendencies like a corrupted software update. My jaw clenched involuntarily as my mind, hijacked, began to dissect them:

Target One: The woman in silver armor. Regal posture, almost unnervingly composed. Sunlight, or whatever passed for it here, glinted off an invisible blade held ready – no, wait, the blade shimmered into view. Golden sword, intricate design. White and blue tunic under polished steel plate. Radiated stability, conviction. Invading thoughts supplied the label: Saber-class Servant.

Assessment: Heavy armor implies reliance on defense, likely favors close-quarters combat. Single sword suggests focus, possibly lacking versatility compared to dual-wielders or polearms. Speed seems high despite armor, probably enhanced beyond normal limits. Attacks might follow predictable patterns based on traditional swordsmanship. Define 'predictable' when facing someone who looks like they stepped directly out of Arthurian legend and radiates holy light. System is probably oversimplifying.

Target Two: The man in blue. Lean, feral energy coiled within a lithe frame. Stance lower, predatory. Gripped a crimson spear that seemed to drink the unnatural light, sharp and grotesquely barbed. Less armor, prioritizing agility. Label appeared: Lancer-class Servant.

Assessment: Spear dictates mid-range engagement. High mobility likely used for flanking or hit-and-run tactics. Reach of the spear is the primary threat; closing distance might be key. Assuming he doesn't just impale you from ten meters away with inhuman speed. Seems likely. Potential weakness: relies on agility, a solid hit might be decisive if it lands.

Target Three: Standing slightly apart, radiating detached cynicism. White hair, tanned skin, dressed in striking red. Arms crossed? Twin blades, one black, one white, were strapped to his back. No bow. At all. System insisted: Archer-class Servant.

Assessment: Dual swords suggest close combat proficiency, directly contradicting the Class designation. Lack of visible ranged weapon is deceptive; Archers can apparently project weapons or use alternative projectiles. Or maybe the system's classification is just garbage. If he can snipe effectively, he's the priority threat due to lack of reaction time for dodging unseen attacks. An Archer who prefers swords? Is this system deliberately trying to be confusing? Or is he just a fellow contrarian? Feels familiar.

My head throbbed. This wasn't my analysis, not entirely. It was too quick, too specific, filled with terminology I didn't possess seconds ago. It felt like cheating on a test I didn't know I was taking, using answers forcibly downloaded into my brain by malware.

Wait. Why the hell do I know any of this? Where did this information come from? The violation was palpable. My own thoughts felt crowded, contaminated.

The voice chimed in again, its cheerfulness utterly incongruous with the scenario.

«There will be no record of your score. Please feel free to enjoy.»

Enjoy? The word grated against my nerves like sandpaper. Enjoy what? Being thrown into a simulated gladiator match against… things… armed with legendary figures whose combat stats I now unwillingly know? Is this their idea of an orientation video? My fingers, blessedly under my own control now, clenched into fists. My breath felt shallow, tight in my chest.

I could finally move. My limbs responded, albeit sluggishly, like waking from a long coma. But the return of control brought a new problem. Standing amidst these three beings radiating palpable power, facing imminent unknown threats…

What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Stand here and look meaningfully into the distance? Offer cynical commentary from the sidelines while actual warriors handle it? That felt... disturbingly familiar, but somehow far more lethal in this context.

No time to dwell. Before my brain could cycle through its usual flowchart of 'Avoidance, Reluctant Action and finally Inevitable Regret,' the ground itself seemed to vomit darkness.

The enemy arrived.

They clawed their way out of the artificial earth – shambling figures made of swirling shadow and solidified malice. Bodies twisted, incomplete, like half-formed nightmares given crude form. Their movements were jerky, spasmodic, inhumanly wrong. Less like soldiers, more like broken marionettes forced to dance on tangled strings by a psychotic puppeteer.

No. This isn't real. The denial was automatic, reflexive. A defense mechanism kicking in against the sheer wrongness of it all. This has to be a dream. A hallucination brought on by stress, lack of sleep, or maybe Komachi finally switching my MAX Coffee with something questionable she bought online.

Then why does my body feel so damn heavy? Why does the air still crackle with that unnatural energy? Why does the thumping in my chest feel so terrifyingly authentic?

Five of them. The nearest one, a lurching silhouette with too many limbs, was already lunging, a guttural hiss tearing through the air.

My reaction time? Non-existent. My combat prowess? Limited to dodging Hiratsuka-sensei's overly enthusiastic 'guidance' sessions. I was dead before I hit the fake ground.

And before I could even fully process that delightful thought—

Saber moved.

It wasn't a charge; it was a shift in reality. One instant she was standing sentinel, the next she simply occupied the space between me and the creature. A single, fluid step that covered impossible distance. A breath held, then released.

Then, a blinding flash – the golden sword, blazing with light. It scythed down in a perfect, devastating arc.

Thwip.

No resistance. No clang of impact. Just the clean, terrifying sound of something fundamental being severed. The shadow-thing was carved shoulder-to-hip before its lunge even reached its apex. It didn't scream, didn't bleed. It simply... dissolved. Fell apart into motes of black dust that vanished before hitting the ground. Erased.

Saber lowered her sword, stance unchanged, exhaling softly. Her expression was serene, focused. Utterly unfazed. Like she'd just swatted a particularly annoying fly, not obliterated a creature from a nightmare dimension. The casual lethality was chilling.

I… I just saw something die. No, worse. I saw something get erased. One second, a tangible threat. The next, absolutely nothing. No blood, no corpse, no sign it ever existed. My stomach churned, a cold knot tightening in my gut. This wasn't like watching some action movie. This felt disturbingly final. Real consequences, even in a simulation?

Before the bile could rise in my throat, another shadow-beast lunged from the flank.

Lancer was already intercepting.

His movement was different from Saber's – less ethereal grace, more explosive speed. A blur of blue and flashing crimson. The barbed spear whistled through the charged air, a sound promising agony.

Shlick.

A single, precise thrust. No wasted motion. Direct. Brutal. Lethal. The spearhead punched clean through the creature's mockery of a skull, emerging from the back in a shower of dark particles and faint light. The thing spasmed violently once, then imploded into dust just like the first.

I swallowed hard, the sound loud in my own ears. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence following the violence. Two down. Effortlessly.

Lancer retracted his spear with a smooth, predatory flick of the wrist. A faint, wolfish smirk touched his lips as his gaze flickered towards me for a nanosecond. "That's two down," he stated, voice calm, almost bored. Like he was keeping score in a dull game just to pass the time.

My brain, finally catching up to the sheer speed of events, kicked into analytical overdrive, amplified by that unwanted data feed. Think. Process. Survive.

Three left. One holding back, observing – mid-range threat? Two more beginning to circle, trying to flank from opposite sides. Saber and Lancer were devastatingly effective, but their current positions left gaps. If they got separated or pincered… their efficiency could drop. My survival odds, currently hovering near zero, would likely enter negative integers.

My gaze flicked to the third figure. Archer.

He hadn't moved. Still standing apart, arms crossed, radiating an air of profound disinterest. But his eyes – sharp, intelligent – met mine across the chaotic space.

He was waiting.

Not for orders, exactly. That felt wrong. Felt like he barely tolerated my existence. It was more like... acknowledgement. Expectation. Like a silent challenge: 'Alright, new guy. You've seen the overture. You have the data dump. What's the play? Or are you just dead weight?'

He's testing me. Sizing me up. Seeing if the random schmuck they got saddled with has a single tactical thought in his head, even a borrowed one.

Panic should have set in. Raw, unadulterated terror. I was completely out of my depth, unqualified, a bystander thrust onto center stage. My usual response would be strategic withdrawal, sarcastic deflection, anything to avoid responsibility.

But something else surged through me. Maybe residual adrenaline from the neural assault. Maybe the sheer absurdity breaking some internal dam. Maybe just plain, stubborn refusal to fold immediately under pressure from a smug digital ghost. A cold, unfamiliar resolution crystalized in my chest. And for the first time since being trapped in this whole mess, my mouth opened, the words forming before I consciously willed them, pulled from that invasive data.

"Archer." My voice was rough, unfamiliar. "Right flank. Intercept. Prevent encirclement." Cut off their escape felt too passive; intercept matched the tactical overlay.

His reaction was instantaneous. No hesitation, no questioning glance. Just a curt, almost imperceptible nod.

He didn't draw a bow. He didn't conjure arrows from thin air.

Instead, the twin swords – Kanshou and Bakuya, the names flashed unwanted in my mind – were suddenly in his hands, gleaming starkly against the crimson light. He moved like a phantom, a blur of red and steel.

A sidestep that evaded the flanking shadow's clumsy strike. A pivot, impossibly smooth. A slash.

Swish-thunk.

The creature to the right simply… fell apart. Bisected horizontally at the waist with surgical precision. Both halves dissolved into dust before they even registered the attack. He fought less like an archer and more like a seasoned assassin, brutally efficient and devoid of flair.

So why the hell is he classified as an Archer? The contradiction grated, another piece of illogical data in this nonsensical puzzle. Unless 'Archer' is just code for 'contrarian asshole who brings swords to an arrow fight'. Plausible.

No time to ponder Archer's identity crisis. Because the final enemy, the one that had been hanging back, chose its moment. It ignored the Servants engaging the others. It ignored the flanks.

It charged me.

A guttural roar ripped the air as it covered the distance with terrifying speed. Dark claws outstretched, aimed squarely at my chest.

Too fast.

There was no time to dodge, no time to think, no time even to brace for impact. My life didn't flash before my eyes; there wasn't time for that luxury. Just the stark certainty of impending impalement by a shadow-monster in a fake world.

But that strange, forced connection from earlier buzzed – a faint, almost instinctual awareness.

Saber.

And just as the claws were inches away, a wall of silver and gold slammed into place between us. Saber, appearing as if from nowhere, her expression utterly serene. The golden sword rose, not in a flashy swing, but as an immovable barrier, radiating calm determination.

CLANG-SHINK!

A single, precise stroke met the shadow beast's attack head-on. Not a block, but an intercepting cut that traveled cleanly through the creature's form, splitting it down the middle from head to torso.

The impact generated a brief shockwave, a blast of displaced air that whipped past me, stinging my eyes. The divided creature dissolved instantly, leaving only Saber standing bathed in the sword's fading golden light.

My throat felt tight, constricted. Air refused to enter my lungs properly. If she had been even a fraction of a second slower… The thought was paralyzing.

…No.

I forcibly shook my head, pushing the near-death replay away. Can't dwell on 'what ifs'. That path leads to useless anxiety. Focus. Analyze the outcome.

The artificial battlefield fell silent. The heavy, charged air seemed to lessen slightly.

Five enemies. Five kills. Dealt with in maybe twenty seconds, tops. Annihilated with contemptuous ease by beings I couldn't begin to comprehend, following commands I barely understood giving.

Lancer casually twirled his crimson spear, the movement fluid and practiced, before resting it on his shoulder. He let out a light breath, looking almost disappointed it was over so quickly.

Archer, ever the stoic, simply made his twin swords vanish as quickly as they'd appeared, crossing his arms again without a word. His gaze lingered on me for a fraction longer than necessary before drifting away. Acknowledgement given? Test passed… maybe? Or just filing away data on the new idiot's reaction time.

Saber turned fully towards me. Her posture remained regal, unwavering. Her piercing green eyes, devoid of hostility but intense nonetheless, locked onto mine. And then, the question that sealed my fate in this bizarre reality show:

"Master. Your orders?"

Master?

The word hit like a physical blow. No. Absolutely not. That's not… that's not me. I don't lead. I don't give orders. My primary skillset involves finding the path of least resistance and maximizing minimal effort. I manage expectations downwards. I delegate blame, not tasks. Commanding legendary heroes pulled from some digital ether? Not on the resume. Never will be.

But they were all looking at me. Or at least, Saber was looking, and the other two radiated a sense of waiting. Expectant. Like I was supposed to have the next step. Like I possessed some grand strategy, some hidden insight gleaned from that data dump. Like I had any damn clue what I was doing here, or what 'here' even was.

I swallowed, the motion rough against a suddenly bone-dry throat. My first instinct – my only instinct – was to correct them. 'You've got the wrong guy. Refund policy? Error in processing?'

But the words died before they reached my lips. Maybe it was the intensity of Saber's unwavering gaze. Maybe it was the lingering adrenaline making rational thought difficult. Maybe it was the dawning, horrific realization that denial wouldn't change the immediate, dangerous facts of the situation.

I didn't say anything.

And in that silence, the world ended again.

«Simulation complete. Battle won.»

The crimson sky flickered and died. The fabricated landscape dissolved, melting away like wet cardboard. The figures of Saber, Lancer, and Archer faded, dematerializing back into nothingness, leaving only the phantom echo of their power and my unwilling command.

«Activating Heroic Spirit Summoning System: Fate.»

«We hope you had a good experience as a Master for these 180 seconds.»

The transition wasn't gentle. One moment, I was standing on a non-existent battlefield, heart pounding. The next, reality snapped back hard. A violent gasp tore from my lungs as my body jerked, like being hauled unceremoniously out of deep water. My vision swam, blurred lights flickering overhead. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, echoing the phantom adrenaline of the fight I hadn't physically fought. The charged air was gone, replaced by the cold, sterile scent of… disinfectant?

The simulation was over. But the feeling lingered – the weight of that unwanted title, 'Master', the shock of erasure, the impossible speed and power of those… Servants.

This was reality. Cold, hard floor beneath me. Unpleasantly bright fluorescent lights above. And a weird, persistent sensation on my cheek – damp, slightly rough, and alarmingly mobile.

…Did something just lick my face?

"Fou?"

What in the fresh hell is a 'Fou'? Sounds like a sneeze trying to be a question. Is this place staffed by cartoon characters now?

Before I could ponder that disturbing possibility, the sensation on my cheek registered again. Wet. Rough. Definitely tongue-like. A cold shiver traced its way down my spine, an involuntary revulsion making my skin crawl. My muscles tensed automatically – a pathetic attempt at defense – but coordination felt sluggish, disconnected. Like trying to move limbs still numb from pins and needles, except the numbness permeated my entire being.

Was it residual exhaustion from the forced mental gymnastics of the simulation? No, this felt different. Deeper. A lingering stiffness clung to me, a full-body ache that wasn't just from lying on a cold floor. It felt like the after-effect of being digitally disassembled and poorly reassembled. Like finding out someone used your body for a joyride while you were offline.

"...Feels like something just licked my face," I muttered, the words raspy in my throat. Easier to state the obvious observation than to process the sheer bizarreness underlying it. Acknowledging the full scope of reality felt like too much effort right now. Denial was a much more comfortable default setting.

Slowly, reluctantly, I cracked open an eyelid. Then the other. Vision swam slightly, adjusting to the harsh fluorescent glare overhead.

White fur. Tiny paws gripping my shirt. Beady, intelligent eyes staring directly into mine.

A... creature. Perched squarely on my chest like it owned the place. Some kind of albino squirrel crossed with a fluffy ferret? A genetically engineered dust bunny? Whatever it was, it radiated an aura of smug self-importance completely disproportionate to its size. It looked like it was silently judging my life choices, and finding them severely lacking.

My brain, still buffering from the system crash that was the last few minutes, struggled to categorize this new input.

Where am I? Still unanswered.

What is happening? Increasingly unclear.

What is this thing? Disturbingly present and judgmental.

I stared at it. It stared back, unblinking, head tilted slightly as if analyzing my reaction time. In that silent exchange, a fundamental truth passed between us, instantly understood without the need for words:

I hated it. With a sudden, burning passion usually reserved for overly cheerful morning people and mandatory group assignments involving icebreakers.

"…A dream," I mumbled, closing my eyes again. Didn't even sound convincing to myself. "Yep. Definitely still dreaming. Any second now, I'll wake up smelling burnt toast from Komachi's latest culinary experiment." It's the only logical explanation for reality including sentient, judgmental fluff balls.

"Fou! Kyu!"

The creature made a noise remarkably similar to offended sputtering. Then, with surprising speed, it lunged. Straight for my face.

Nope! Pure, unthinking survival instinct kicked in. Adrenaline surged, momentarily overriding the sluggishness. I jerked my head aside just as tiny claws aimed for my eyes. A glancing blow, not a direct hit, thank whatever minimal deity governs rodent attacks.

Instead of my face, the furry menace latched onto the fabric of my shirt near my shoulder, digging in with concerningly sharp little claws. It then proceeded to make a series of self-satisfied chirps, clearly pleased with its successful ambush.

…Okay. So, not a dream. Just intensely weird. Weirder than my baseline weirdness setting.

This entire situation – the lingering phantom ache of the simulation, the sterile, impersonal hallway, the aggressively bright lights, and now this... this tiny, fluffy war criminal currently trying to burrow into my shoulder – felt fundamentally off. Like a prank taken way too far, meticulously designed to maximize confusion and irritation. Standard Tuesday, then. Just in a much more alarming postcode.

Just as I was contemplating the strategic merits of forcibly dislodging the shoulder parasite via rapid acceleration against the nearest wall, a voice cut through the lingering fog in my head. Soft. Hesitant. Almost apologetic for existing.

"…Umm. Since it's neither morning nor night, please wake up, Senpai."

Senpai?

The word landed awkwardly, pinging off my eardrums with a dull thud. It wasn't inherently offensive, just… wrong. Loaded. Like being called 'bro' by a stranger trying to sell you crypto, or 'team player' in a group project where you single-handedly prevented catastrophe while everyone else contributed precisely nothing. It implied a relationship, a hierarchy, a level of familiarity that absolutely did not exist. Especially not here, wherever 'here' was, with a possibly rabid fluffball attached to my clavicle.

My gaze flickered, slow and unwilling, toward the source of the voice.

A girl. Standing a few paces away, posture straight but somehow tentative. Short hair, an unusual shade of pale lilac, framed a face that was… quiet. Her eyes, a startlingly clear violet, were steady but held a distinct guardedness, like shutters drawn partway down. Her expression was carefully neutral, the kind of practiced calm people adopt when actively trying to blend into the background, to minimize their presence. The uniform – stark white and vaguely futuristic armor plating over a dark undersuit – did little to help her stand out. She looked like she was trying very hard not to be noticed, which, ironically, made her immediately noticeable to someone like me, always scanning for the outliers.

My brain, still feeling sluggish and abused, tried to reconcile this quiet girl with the recent sensory overload. The phantom battlefield. The impossible figures. The brutal efficiency of Saber and Lancer. The analytical data dump about Servants and tactics. That couldn't have been just a dream, could it? The lingering ache in my bones, the phantom echo of fear, the sheer visceral wrongness of watching those shadow things get erased... it felt too real, too immediate. Like a fresh scar, not a fading nightmare.

I exhaled sharply, a rough sound in the quiet corridor, and instinctively rubbed my temple, trying to massage away the headache that was part simulation aftershock, part existential confusion.

Focus. Information needed. Start with the basics.

"…Who are you?" My voice still sounded like sandpaper scraped over gravel.

She blinked, those violet eyes widening almost imperceptibly. Caught off guard? By a simple question? Or maybe she just wasn't used to being addressed directly.

"That's… a difficult question to answer suddenly." A brief pause, her gaze flicking down for a fraction of a second before returning to mine. Then, softer, almost a murmur, as if thinking aloud: "Maybe I'm not important enough for you to know my name?"

Ah. There it is. That.

The immediate deflection. The preemptive self-deprecation. The subtle framing of oneself as insignificant, unworthy of attention or even basic identification. It's a defense mechanism, pure and simple. A way to manage expectations by setting them at rock bottom. Assume you don't matter, and maybe it won't sting as much when others treat you accordingly.

I knew that tactic. I knew that tone. Hell, I'd practically perfected variations of it myself over the years. Observe, analyze, minimize involvement, assume the worst – the Hikigaya Hachiman guide to social survival. Seeing it reflected so plainly in someone else was… jarring.

She seemed to catch herself, color rising faintly in her cheeks as she glanced away, clearly regretting the impulsive honesty. She took a quiet breath, visibly forcing herself back to a more neutral script.

"…No, I do have a name. A proper one," she amended, her voice regaining a measure of steadiness, though the underlying insecurity lingered like a watermark. "But… I never really had the chance to use it much." She trailed off, leaving the implication hanging – unused, therefore unimportant. Textbook.

A faint frown pulled at my lips, an involuntary reaction. Okay, she's overthinking. Massively. Layering social anxiety on top of self-worth issues, wrapped in a hesitant politeness that probably gets her walked all over. She reminds me of... certain people. People who try too hard, people who break too easily, people whose earnestness is both infuriating and strangely... affecting. People wrapped up in that messy, complicated knot of seeking something genuine—

No. I mentally slammed the brakes on that train of thought. Hard. Shoved the comparisons down before they could fully surface. Not here. Not now. Bringing that particular brand of emotional baggage into whatever fresh hell this situation promised to be was a recipe for disaster. Keep it compartmentalized. Keep it detached.

Enough psychoanalysis. Facts. I needed facts. Starting with the most basic.

I let out a quiet sigh, less exhaustion, more resignation to the sheer effort involved in basic human interaction. Pushing myself upright felt like moving through molasses. Not weakness, exactly – the phantom ache from the simulation was fading – but a profound, bone-deep reluctance to engage with whatever fresh nonsense this reality had cooked up. The tiny terrorist on my shoulder shifted, forcing me to adjust my posture around it. Great. Added inconvenience. Finally vertical, I met the girl's guarded gaze again.

"…Where are we?" The question was blunt, stripped of pleasantries. Let's cut the awkward small talk and get to the point.

Her expression flickered, tension easing almost imperceptibly. Relief? Like I'd thrown her a conversational lifeline she could actually grab onto, instead of making her navigate the minefield of personal identification questions. Huh. Maybe she disliked pointless social maneuvering as much as I did. Score one minor point for potential common ground, maybe.

"This is the passageway leading from the main entrance hangar to the Central Command Room," she explained, her voice a bit more steady now. "It's just ahead." She gestured vaguely down the pristine, too-white corridor.

Right. 'Central Command Room.' Sounds suitably important and vaguely threatening. Like something out of a low-budget spy movie set in a futuristic hospital. I took a slow, deliberate scan of our surroundings, letting my eyes adjust and absorb the details.

White walls, gleaming under the harsh fluorescent strips overhead. Too white. Sterile, yes, but aggressively so. Like someone had gone overboard with the bleach and antiseptic, trying to scrub away any hint of personality or life. The air felt processed, recycled, carrying the faint, clinical tang of ozone and… maybe floor wax? Dim lighting, paradoxically, only emphasized the starkness, creating long, sterile shadows. It wasn't futuristic in a cool, sleek way. It was futuristic in a low-budget, 1970s sci-fi set kind of way, all clean lines and oppressive emptiness. It screamed 'experimental medical facility where ethical guidelines are optional' or 'soulless corporate headquarters designed by committee.'

Ah. The classic 'secret organization trying way too hard to look clean and efficient while probably doing deeply questionable things behind closed doors' aesthetic. Textbook. At least they were consistent.

The girl – still nameless, thanks to her earlier self-deprecation spiral – shifted slightly on her feet, clearing her throat. Back to awkwardness it is, then.

"Ahem. Anyway… can I ask you something, Senpai?" Please stop calling me that.

"…That depends," I replied, keeping my tone flat. "Is it multiple-choice? True or false? Essay questions require advance notice and incur a significant surcharge for emotional labor."

She blinked, processed the sarcasm for a beat, then decided – wisely – to ignore it completely. She tilted her head slightly, a gesture that might have been purely analytical. "You were asleep on the floor just now… It seemed like a very deep sleep, but I don't really understand why you'd sleep here." Her gaze swept the empty corridor, devoid of anything remotely resembling comfort. "Is it a preference? Can you not sleep unless you're on a hard, sterile surface?"

My eyebrow twitched involuntarily. Preference? Like I chose to faceplant in the hallway of this shady organization's headquarters?

"…I was sleeping here?" I asked, letting a healthy dose of incredulity color my tone. Just confirming the depths of my own arrival indignity.

"Yes. Very soundly," she confirmed, a tiny hint of amusement – or maybe just detached observation – creeping into her voice. "Like a log. It was such a profound unconsciousness, it was almost textbook in its completeness."

Wonderful. So my grand arrival at this mysterious, possibly dangerous facility didn't involve a cool, enigmatic entrance. It involved passing out cold in a random corridor like a first-year university student after their first pub crawl. Fantastic. Truly, my legacy begins on a high note. I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. Might as well lean into the absurdity.

"Yeah, well," I deadpanned, letting my gaze drift wistfully into the middle distance like I was recalling a fond memory. "I have specific requirements. Can't achieve REM sleep unless it's on a traditional, hand-woven straw mat. Preferably one aired out under a full moon by chanting monks." Might as well see how far she'll run with this nonsense.

She blinked again, but this time her expression shifted to one of genuine, slightly wide-eyed interest. "Oh! A tatami mat? Like in a classic Japanese room? I've read about those. The specific weaving patterns… the unique scent of the igusa reeds… I see. That makes sense, then. Different environmental factors can significantly impact sleep quality and neurological restoration cycles…" She nodded seriously, filing the fabricated information away with alarming sincerity.

I stared at her. She was actually buying it. Or at least, seriously considering the logistics of my bullshit preference. The earnestness was almost painful to witness. Is everyone in this place this literal?

"…You're taking this way too seriously," I muttered, shaking my head slightly. The required suspension of disbelief to function here must be astronomical.

"Fou! Fou!"

Right on cue, the fluffy menace reappeared, executing a surprisingly agile leap from my shoulder (leaving tiny claw marks, I noted with annoyance) onto hers. It settled there with an air of smug belonging, nuzzling against her cheek. Great. It plays favorites. Traitorous furball.

She smiled softly at the creature, her earlier guardedness melting away for a moment, replaced by genuine affection. It was a jarring shift. She almost seemed to forget I was standing right there, an awkward third wheel to her interspecies bonding moment.

"Ah, I completely forgot," she murmured, stroking Fou's head gently. "I still haven't introduced you properly yet, have I, Fou?"

No, I thought dryly. But please, feel free to continue forgetting. Especially about its apparent sentience.

"This small, squirrel-like animal is Fou," she continued, turning back to me, her professional, slightly awkward mask slipping back into place. "He's something of a mascot here. Officially designated as a 'Privileged Life-Form' allowed to wander freely throughout Chaldea." She frowned slightly, as if unsure of the exact designation.

I stared at the creature, now preening under her attention. Privileged Life-Form? That sounded like peak corporate doublespeak. The kind of title you give the CEO's pampered miniature poodle to justify its expense account for artisanal Evian water bowls. Or maybe it really is important. In this place, a sentient ball of fluff being crucial to operations wouldn't even crack the top five weirdest things encountered so far.

"'Squirrel' is… generous," I muttered under my breath, loud enough for her, and hopefully the smug rat-thing, to hear.

Fou let out another sharp, offended chirp and glared daggers at me from its perch on her shoulder.

Good, I thought. Feel insulted, you furry little menace. Mutual animosity established. Excellent.

Just as Fou finished radiating indignant fury from the girl's shoulder, another voice joined the party. This one wasn't hesitant or high-pitched. It sliced through the sterile air—calm, smooth as polished glass, and laced with a faint, almost condescending amusement.

"Ah, there you are, Mash. Developing a habit of wandering off, are we? Do be careful, you'll give the Director palpitations."

My head snapped towards the sound. And every cynical instinct I possessed screamed WARNING.

Instant dislike. Immediate, visceral, and absolute.

He was tall, carrying himself with an effortless, almost theatrical grace. Dark reddish-brown hair, meticulously styled with just a hint of artistic curl at the ends, framed sharp, aristocratic features. He wore a dark green top hat – because of course he wore a top hat, the absolute caricature – and a fur-lined coat draped over his shoulders like he was surveying his ancestral estate after a successful fox hunt, not standing in a glorified hospital corridor. He looked like he'd stepped directly out of a Victorian melodrama, probably after poisoning the protagonist's Earl Grey and framing the loyal, dim-witted butler.

But it was his eyes that sealed the deal. Dark, intelligent, and utterly unreadable, with the barest hint of a smirk playing constantly at the corners of his lips. The kind of look that says, 'I know everything, you know nothing, and isn't that terribly amusing for me?' He positively radiated smug superiority and the distinct aroma of intricate scheming done purely for his own entertainment.

His gaze swept past Mash—ah, so her name is Mash—landing on me with a flicker of polite, calculated recognition. Like cataloging a new piece of lab equipment, or perhaps identifying an unfamiliar species of insect that had wandered indoors.

"Oh?" He paused, tilting his head slightly, a gesture that perfectly mimicked adjusting an invisible monocle. Pretentious git. "You must be..." His eyes narrowed fractionally, accessing some internal file. "...Hikigaya. Hachiman Hikigaya, yes? So, you're the last of the forty-eight candidates to arrive."

My brain snagged on two words. Forty-eight? Candidates? Candidates for what? And forty-eight sounded suspiciously like a specific, limited number required for… something. Not exactly the 'open recruitment drive for saving humanity' vibe I was (begrudgingly) starting to assume.

But the other word rankled more. Last.

"…Last?" I echoed, my voice flat, eyes narrowing. The word felt like a judgment, a dismissal wrapped in a simple statement of fact. "You make it sound like I scraped in by the skin of my teeth after everyone else got food poisoning." Or more accurately, like they dragged me in unconscious off the street to fill a quota when the originally intended candidate wisely fled.

"In a manner of speaking, you did," he replied, his faint smile not wavering, utterly ignoring the edge in my tone. The smooth bastardry was almost impressive in its sheer lack of shame. He then executed a graceful half-bow, a fluid, practiced movement that felt both overly formal and subtly mocking. "A belated welcome to Chaldea. I am Lev Lainur. Technically, I'm listed as one of the technicians assigned here."

Technician. The word seemed deliberately understated compared to his aristocratic bearing and expensive coat. Scientist? Engineer? Or just 'guy who calibrates the sinister machinery but acts like he designed the universe'? Whatever his actual role, he spoke with the casual authority of someone who held significant influence. Someone who knew exactly who was 'last'. And that immediately rubbed me the wrong way. Power dynamics, especially unspoken ones wielded by smarmy guys in ludicrously anachronistic hats, always set off internal alarms.

His gaze swept over me again, a quick, appraising glance that felt far too perceptive. Calculating. Assessing. "I heard you were among those selected from the public applicants. Quite the leap into the deep end," he continued smoothly. "How long was your preparatory training period? A full year? Perhaps six months?" The question sounded innocent, conversational, but the undertone felt like prodding for weakness, confirming my lack of qualification.

I met his gaze, keeping my expression deliberately blank. Let him guess. Let him work for it. Waste his precious scheming time.

"…I'll leave that to your undoubtedly fertile imagination," I replied, my tone as dry as burnt toast found under a couch cushion.

Lev chuckled softly, a low, controlled sound that didn't reach his eyes. He adjusted the cuff of his perfectly tailored glove. "Ah, playing your cards close to your chest. A wise stratagem, perhaps, given the circumstances." He seemed almost approving, which was immediately suspicious.

And then Mash, bless her socially unaware, earnest heart, torpedoed that impression completely.

"Actually, Professor Lev," she interjected quietly, apparently missing the subtext entirely, "It seems that Senpai's training was less than a few hours, possibly just involving the entry simulation itself."

Do I really seem that incompetent? I thought, resisting the urge to glare daggers at her. Though she wasn't wrong, honesty seemed to be her factory default setting.

Silence descended. Not awkward, just… heavy. Charged. Calculating.

Lev didn't blink. His faint smirk didn't falter. He simply tilted his head again, that slight, analytical motion. His eyes remained fixed on me, but it felt like he was processing this new data point with unnerving speed, slotting it neatly into some mental dossier labeled 'Expendable Newbie'.

"…Oh?" The syllable was drawn out slightly, utterly devoid of surprise or judgment. Too neutral. Dangerously neutral. Like a predator observing unexpected prey behavior - like finding out the rabbit it cornered is actually just a particularly convincing painted rock - before deciding whether to ignore it or crush it out of boredom.

Then, as if Mash had merely commented on the questionable quality of the cafeteria coffee, he nodded slowly. "Well, now… I see." His tone remained perfectly level, utterly unperturbed. He reacted like she'd just informed him I preferred MAX Coffee over black tea, not that I was catastrophically unqualified for whatever 'candidate' position I'd somehow landed. The sheer lack of reaction was more unsettling than any outburst of derision would have been.

Lev's unnerving neutrality continued, smooth and unruffled like a freshly pressed suit. "Indeed. It seems we had an emergency opening near the end of the final recruitment cycle. Purely to ensure we met the required number of candidates for the project's initiation."

Required number. The words clicked into place with grim certainty, confirming the suspicion that had been itching at the back of my mind since he'd said 'last'.

So that's it. Not skill. Not potential aptitude. Not even dumb luck in some rigged global lottery.

I wasn't chosen; I was needed. Like the last puzzle piece, doesn't matter if it fits perfectly, doesn't matter if it's slightly chewed on by the dog, it just needs to fill the goddamn gap so the picture looks complete from a distance.

They didn't want me, Hachiman Hikigaya, professional cynic and master of calculated avoidance. They just needed a body. A warm (or in my case, recently unconscious and floor-temperature) body to complete the set of forty-eight. To check a box on some bureaucratic form before starting whatever insane project this was.

A cold, creeping realization settled in my gut, heavier than the earlier confusion or the simulation's phantom pain. It wasn't indignant anger, more like the weary resignation of seeing your lowest assumptions about your own value proven correct yet again. The universe really did enjoy its little jokes at my expense.

"…Hold on." My voice came out flat, devoid of inflection. Processing… processing… integrating this new, depressing data point. "Let me get this straight. I didn't 'make the cut' through any merit or screening process. I got pulled in because you were short-staffed at the last minute? I'm literally just here to fill a quota?"

"That's one, rather blunt, way of putting it, yes," Lev replied lightly, his infuriating smirk widening slightly, clearly enjoying my bluntness. Not a hint of apology or even mild professional embarrassment. Just the cheerful confirmation that my presence here was basically a clerical necessity, like ordering extra staples.

The sheer, unadulterated honesty was almost refreshing in its awfulness. He wasn't even trying to spin it into some 'destiny called' bullshit. I could almost admire the lack of manipulative sugar-coating – except for the glaring fact that this honesty highlighted just how monumentally unqualified and likely disposable I was. Being the emergency backup player is one thing when the game is shogi; it's quite another when the stadium seems built over a hellmouth and the opposing team might be actual extra-dimensional horrors.

Mash had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable, her gaze dropping to the floor. Good for her. Someone here should possess a shred of situational awareness or basic human empathy.

Lev, completely unfazed by the implication of drafting untrained personnel for a critical mission, continued as if bestowing profound wisdom upon a clueless peasant. "But please, don't let that discourage you, Hikigaya. Every candidate is vital for the success of this mission."

Mission? The capitalized word sounded ominous and deeply suspicious, reeking of vague importance and probable danger. I barely heard him, though. My mind was stuck on the implications.

48 candidates. A fixed number.

Emergency hires needed to meet the quota.

Untrained liabilities pulled in last minute.

My own training: Negative hours.

What kind of critical, humanity-preserving 'mission' relies on scraping the bottom of the barrel for last-minute recruits with zero preparation? This wasn't a part-time convenience store gig where you could just throw someone on the register during a rush and hope for the best. The stakes felt terrifyingly higher, yet the recruitment strategy screamed 'desperate incompetence'. Either that or a calculated, callous disregard for personnel survival rates. My money was firmly on a depressingly rational combination of both.

I rubbed my temples again, the headache intensifying under the weight of this new information. "So, what you're actually saying is…" I let out a sharp, humorless breath. "I'm not even qualified enough to be an unpaid intern. I'm the warm body they grabbed off the metaphorical waitlist when someone else presumably had the good sense to read the fine print and run screaming for the hills."

Lev's smirk remained firmly in place, unwavering. Apparently, my miniature existential crisis about being cannon fodder was mildly amusing background noise to him. Good to know.

Still trying to process the sheer clusterfuck of my employment status, I almost missed his next question, delivered with that same casual, subtly probing tone. "Speaking of which, I noticed you and Mash seemed rather engaged when I arrived. That's unusual for her, she tends to keep to herself. Did you perhaps know each other beforehand?" His eyes flicked between us, gauging reactions with unnerving precision.

Nosy bastard. Always digging.

Mash shook her head quickly, perhaps a little too quickly, flustered by the direct attention. "N-No, Professor. I'd never met Senpai before today. I just saw him sleeping here on the floor, so I…" She trailed off, likely remembering the absurd 'straw mat' conversation and deciding not to elaborate.

Lev let out a theatrical sigh, shaking his head with mock disappointment. "Sleeping? Right here in the main thoroughfare? Ahh, that must mean you went through the introductory simulation upon entry, correct? The Spiritron Dives can be quite disorienting if one isn't fully prepared or accustomed to the process." He waved a dismissive hand, as if temporary bodily digitization was a minor inconvenience like jet lag.

My brain, already overloaded and protesting vehemently, screeched to a halt like a commuter train hitting a solid concrete wall unexpectedly placed on the tracks. The casual way he dropped the term…

"…Spiritron what now?" The words came out before I could stop them. I sounded like an idiot asking for clarification on basic terminology, but clarity trumped dignity at this point. Especially when the terminology sounded like rejected Star Trek technobabble.

Lev glanced at me, a flicker of something – impatience? Mild surprise at my utter ignorance? – crossing his aristocratic features before being smoothed away behind his polite mask. "Spiritron Dive," he repeated, enunciating clearly, as if saying it slower would magically implant understanding into my obviously deficient brain.

I waited. Blank stare. Nothing computed.

"…And the CliffsNotes version of that, for the conceptually challenged?" I prompted, trying to keep the sarcasm level below 'immediately fireable offense', though given my hiring circumstances as 'Quota Filler #48', maybe that bar was actually quite low. Firing me might involve more paperwork than keeping me around.

Lev blinked, genuinely seeming thrown for a second. As if I'd just asked him to explain the fundamental concept of breathing. "Ah," he murmured, recovering quickly, though a hint of annoyance colored his tone. "You truly are new to all this."

No kidding, Sherlock. Didn't we just establish I'm the unqualified quota filler with zero training, hired presumably because I had a pulse and technically counted as human? Keep up with your own organization's incompetence.

He adjusted his pristine gloves, taking on the air of a patient university professor explaining quantum entanglement to a particularly dense Labrador retriever who was more interested in chasing squirrels. "A Spiritron Dive is the process by which a human consciousness and, temporarily, their physical form are converted into fundamental Spiritron particles. This conversion allows for translocation across spacetime coordinates via quantum tunneling, a process commonly known within Chaldea as Rayshifting."

Silence. My braincells collided violently, failed to compute the string of nonsensical jargon, declared a general strike, and went back to sleep. Spiritrons. Rayshifting. Spacetime coordinates. Quantum tunneling. It sounded like Zaimokuza had hijacked the facility's PA system and was reading random excerpts from his latest terrible space opera manuscript aloud.

"…Right." I nodded slowly, mimicking thoughtful understanding. "Got it. Crystal clear." A beat. "Now, hypothetically, let's say I didn't understand a single syllable of that pseudoscientific technobabble bullshit. How would you explain it to, say, a particularly skeptical rock that suspects you're trying to sell it snake oil?"

Lev actually sighed this time, rubbing his temple briefly just above his perfectly sculpted eyebrow. The mask of unflappable aristocratic politeness slipped just a fraction. Progress? "Think of it… think of it as advanced virtualization," he said, simplifying drastically, clearly annoyed at having to dumb down his precious jargon. "Turning your body and mind into manageable data packets so we can transmit you somewhere else across spacetime. Like… like sending a very complex, biologically instantiated email."

I stared at him.

Did he just compare fundamentally altering my physical existence and potentially flinging my consciousness across time and space… to sending an email?

I looked at Mash. She offered a small, hesitant, utterly unhelpful nod.

I looked back at Lev.

"…You're telling me I got digitally uploaded? Like in some bad 90s sci-fi movie? That simulation… that wasn't just a vivid hallucination in my head?" The pieces started falling into place, each one more absurd and alarming than the last. The weird non-consensual entry process, the paralysis, the forced knowledge dump, the hyper-realistic combat…

Lev hesitated, perhaps realizing the full, terrifying implications of his oversimplified analogy. "That's… a rather crude interpretation, but in essence, yes. Your consciousness experienced a simulated environment while your physical form was temporarily converted for transit and analysis."

Disbelief warred with a strange, unwelcome sense of validation. It was real. Which meant the pain was real, the danger was real, the impossible Servants were… potentially real? My stomach plummeted towards my shoes.

"You turned me into data." I repeated, the words flat, trying to wrap my head around the concept.

"Into Spiritron particles, yes, a fundamental component of existence," Lev corrected patiently, as if the specific terminology somehow made the violation less disturbing.

"And I agreed to let you do this to me?" That seemed… highly unlikely. Voluntary bodily digitization wasn't high on my list of hobbies, ranking somewhere below 'public speaking' and 'attending school festivals'.

Lev smiled that infuriatingly calm, knows-more-than-you smile again. "You signed the standard Chaldea personnel contract upon accepting candidacy. Clause 7b, paragraph 4, subsection Alpha clearly outlines procedural consent for mandatory Spiritron Dives and subsequent Rayshifting protocols as required for mission parameters."

I opened my mouth. Then closed it. A contract? Did I sign something? When? Was it hidden in the terms and conditions of some sketchy website I visited trying to find bootleg anime? Did Komachi sign me up for something as an elaborate, life-altering prank? My memory offered nothing but static between the Ferris wheel scene and waking up in this sterile hellscape. No contract signing ceremony featured prominently.

Lev clearly registered my internal confusion but, like a true corporate apparatchik adhering strictly to protocol, chose not to elaborate on potentially inconvenient details like 'informed consent'. Instead, he glanced pointedly at an expensive-looking watch peeking out from under his tailored cuff.

"Well, you seem relatively coherent despite the potential disorientation inherent to first-time Dives. Impressive resilience. However, standard operating procedure suggests a brief medical check-up. I'd be happy to escort you to the infirmary wing." The offer sounded less like genuine concern for my well-being and more like wanting to get me processed, cataloged, and neatly filed away out of his hair.

"I'll live," I waved him off brusquely. The last thing I needed right now was to be poked and prodded by whatever Sawbones passed for a doctor in this madhouse. Plus, infirmaries usually meant invasive questions and endless paperwork. Pass.

"Excellent news," Lev replied smoothly, clearly not broken up about my refusal to partake in Chaldea's undoubtedly questionable healthcare system. "In that case, you should probably make your way to the Central Command Room promptly. The Director's orientation briefing is scheduled to begin shortly."

Director? Another ominous title promising bureaucracy and probable annoyance.

Lev adjusted his ridiculous fur-lined coat, preparing to take his leave, presumably to go polish his top hat or plot something nefarious. "Indeed. The esteemed head of the Chaldea Security Organization. Olga Marie Animusphere. You'll be working under her direct authority, as will all forty-seven other candidates."

Animusphere. There was that name again. The one Mash mentioned.

Mash shifted beside me, a subtle tension entering her posture. There was weight in her hesitation before she spoke, her voice low, almost a warning. "Senpai likely has no connection to the Director or her family history. Traditionally, only mages from established, ancient lineages… families with histories spanning over a century at minimum… show proper deference to the Animusphere name and authority."

My brain threw up another critical error message, accompanied by the shrill whine of protesting logic circuits. Mages? Centuries-old magical families? Animusphere dynasty?

Okay, hold the damn phone. I'd begrudgingly started to accept the weird sci-fi vibe. Shadowy corporate conspiracy, morally dubious experiments, maybe even rogue AI running the show – that stuff, while alarming, fit a certain cynical worldview framework. But mages? Like, pointy hats, spell incantations, and ancient magical bloodlines? Now we were veering sharply into Zaimokuza territory, and my tolerance for pure, unadulterated chuunibyou nonsense was hitting absolute zero. Magical Circuits, fine, I could rationalize that away as some kind of futuristic bio-interface technobabble. But full-on hereditary mage dynasties running a supposedly scientific organization? Where the hell did I end up? Some kind of high-budget, incredibly dangerous LARPing convention gone horribly wrong?

Lev's smirk widened fractionally at Mash's comment, clearly finding my probable ignorance amusing. "Indeed. Which means you'd be particularly wise not to get on her bad side through ignorance or perceived disrespect, Hikigaya. First impressions count significantly, especially with Director Animusphere." Oh, I bet they do.

I let out another long-suffering sigh, the weight of inevitability settling heavily on my shoulders. This just kept getting better and better. More hoops to jump through, more personalities to navigate, more potential ways to screw up spectacularly.

"So, what you're saying is," I summarized wearily, rubbing my temples again, "whether I like it or not, whether I'm qualified or not, whether this place runs on advanced science or literal voodoo bullshit… I have absolutely no choice but to go to this mandatory orientation meeting with the probably-a-witch Director?"

Lev's smile reached maximum smarm levels. It was almost radiant in its condescending self-satisfaction.

"Welcome to Chaldea," he repeated, as if that simultaneously explained everything and excused nothing. He gave a final, polite nod that felt anything but, and swept away down the corridor, his stupid, expensive coat billowing dramatically behind him like a low-budget stage villain exiting stage left.

I watched him go, the embodiment of everything I already disliked about this place. Then I looked at Mash, who looked back with those wide, earnest, slightly worried violet eyes. Then I looked down at Fou, who was still perched on her shoulder, probably calculating the optimal trajectory for a claw-based attack on my face.

I sighed again, the sound echoing flatly in the sterile hallway. First, a non-consensual, potentially lethal simulation that involved being turned into digital dust. Now, a mandatory corporate orientation meeting run by a potentially megalomaniacal teenage boss from a family of actual wizards. Truly, hell takes many forms. And apparently, today I was sampling the corporate-funded, sci-fi-fantasy fusion flavour. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Mash led me through another series of oppressively white, identical corridors until we reached a set of imposing double doors. They slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing the Central Command Room. And wouldn't you know it, it was exactly what the name implied and precisely what I expected based on the pervasive 'soulless efficiency' aesthetic of this sterile hellhole.

Think NASA mission control, but designed by someone whose only experience with human interaction was through meticulously organized spreadsheets and flowcharts. Cold, cavernous, and dimly lit, punctuated by the ghostly glow of countless monitors displaying information I couldn't hope to decipher. Huge panoramic screens dominated the far wall, cascading lines of code, complex astrological diagrams, and star charts that might as well have been abstract art for all the sense they made to me. Probably vital information about… the impending doom, maybe? Or perhaps just a really elaborate, constantly shifting screensaver designed purely to look impressive and justify the exorbitant electricity bill. Rows upon rows of tiered seating faced the screens, mostly filled with the other poor saps roped into this – the other "candidates."

My gaze swept over them, doing a quick, subconscious categorization based on posture and expression. The human element, as always, was the most variable and potentially irritating part of any environment. They were a mixed bag, a statistically predictable distribution of archetypes. Some sat ramrod straight, faces etched with intense concentration, like they were about to take the world's hardest final exam and genuinely believed acing it would save humanity. Overachievers. Probably the type who ask annoyingly insightful questions three minutes before the scheduled end of any briefing. Others looked utterly bored, slumped in their seats, scrolling through unseen personal devices or staring blankly at the ceiling panels, clearly having accepted their fate as background extras. Fellow spirits, perhaps? Though their boredom seemed more vacant than my usual calculated apathy. Then there were the bright-eyed ones, practically vibrating with nervous excitement, leaning forward eagerly as if expecting divine revelation. Those were the dangerous ones. The true believers. The ones who drink the corporate Kool-Aid without even asking what flavor it is, let alone checking the ingredients list for poison.

Yeah, I could already tell. A classic distribution. Roughly half of these people were taking this whole 'secret organization saving the world from a threat' thing way too seriously, bringing an uncomfortable level of earnest, misplaced enthusiasm to the table. The other half were likely already regretting signing whatever dotted line brought them here, mentally composing resignation letters or wondering if it was too late to fake a sudden, debilitating allergy to recycled air. I mentally placed myself firmly in the latter category, perhaps even leading the subgroup dedicated to 'discreetly locating the nearest emergency exit and calculating escape velocity'.

My presence, predictably, went utterly unnoticed. Just another cog sliding silently into the machine. Perfect. Blending in is step one of avoiding responsibility and unwanted attention.

And then, positioned prominently at the central podium at the front of the room, commanding attention even in stillness, was her.

Not just a woman, definitely a girl – couldn't be much older than me, maybe even slightly younger based on her features – but carried herself with the rigid posture and barely concealed irritation of a CEO perpetually moments away from firing her entire board of directors for incompetence. Long, striking silver hair cascaded down her back like frozen moonlight. She wore some kind of elaborate, high-collared white and black uniform beneath a severe black and orange coat, buttoned up tight as if bracing against a constant chill. The whole ensemble screamed privilege, importance, and "My family crest is probably embossed on my custom-made cutlery." Her golden eyes, sharp and narrowed, scanned the room with an expression that radiated impatience and a disdain that felt deeply personal yet somehow universal.

One glance. That's all it took. My internal 'Problematic Personality Detector' went off like a klaxon wired directly to my nervous system.

This was the type. The kind of person who operates under the unwavering conviction that they are surrounded by idiots, morons, and incompetents, and that it's their solemn, burdensome duty to manage said idiots despite the crushing weight of their own perceived superiority. The kind who mistakes arrogance for authority and condescension for constructive criticism.

Which, to be perfectly fair, looking around at some of the vacant or overly eager-beaver faces here… she might not be entirely wrong in her assessment of her subordinates. Doesn't make her any less irritating to be around, though. This Director was shaping up to be exactly the kind of boss who makes you fantasize about anonymous complaint forms, early retirement, and perhaps minor acts of sabotage involving the office coffee machine.

The Director – the tiny, silver-haired tyrant-in-training – took a sharp, impatient breath, like she was steeling herself before addressing a room full of particularly dense toddlers she secretly suspected of chewing on the furniture. Her gaze swept across us, somehow managing to convey personalised disdain to each of the forty-eight candidates simultaneously. A truly remarkable, if unpleasant, skill.

"Welcome." Her voice was crisp, clear, and utterly devoid of warmth. Each syllable clipped, sharp-edged, like chips of ice. "Welcome to the Chaldea Security Organization." She paused, letting the silence hang for effect, making sure all eyes were dutifully fixed on her. "I am the director, Olga Marie Animusphere."

Animusphere. There was that name again. The one Mash had mentioned with that odd qualifier about ancient mage families and expected deference. So, she's not just rich and thinks she's inherently superior, she's actual magical nobility or whatever passes for it in this bureaucratic circus. Great. Just adds another layer of potential delusion, inherited arrogance, and probably deeply ingrained classism to the mix. Wonderful.

…Wait a second. She said Director?

My brain lagged, stuttering like an old computer trying to load a modern video game. Director? As in, the person in charge? Her? This kid who looks like she's barely old enough to legally vote in most countries, let alone run a critical, world-saving (presumably) organization funded by god-knows-what shadowy entities? I'd vaguely pegged her as maybe an overly important executive assistant, or perhaps the previous Director's spoiled daughter playing dress-up in the command chair while the real adults handled things behind the scenes.

But the way she held herself, the sheer force of concentrated irritation radiating from her like heat shimmer off asphalt… No, that wasn't pretend authority. That was the real, terrifying confidence of someone who genuinely believes they're the smartest person in any room and expects absolute, unquestioning obedience. Wonderful. My boss is a teenage magical aristocrat with a superiority complex and probable anger management issues. What could possibly go wrong? This mission was doomed from the start, wasn't it?

I squinted slightly, trying to gauge her age more accurately through the dim lighting. Definitely couldn't be much older than me, if at all. Did she inherit the position? A classic case of nepotism, promoting the previous boss's kid regardless of actual competence or temperament? Seems about right for an organization that recruits untrained quota fillers like me at the last second. Organizational competence clearly wasn't Chaldea's strong suit, top to bottom.

"You," she continued, her sharp golden gaze sweeping the room again, fixing momentarily on random individuals as if assessing their worthiness to breathe the same recycled air, "have been selected – or in some unfortunate cases, merely discovered scavenging for parts – from established magical lineages and, regrettably, the general populace across the globe. Chosen for your potential, your affinities, your rare capacity as individuals capable of undertaking Spiritron Dives and adapting to—"

And that's precisely where my brain decided to check out. Physically. Violently. Without prior notice.

It wasn't just the droning tone of bureaucratic self-importance or her grating voice automatically setting my teeth on edge, though those certainly weren't helping matters. It was something deeper, heavier, physiological. My limbs felt weighted down by invisible bags of lead shot. The background hum of the command center seemed to fade, replaced by a thick, muffling fog filling my head, distorting sound. That headache from earlier, the one born from being forcibly digitized, mentally violated, and thrown into a combat simulation, pulsed behind my eyes with renewed, throbbing intensity. The lingering echo of the Spiritron Dive, as Lev had so casually called it. My body felt like it had run a marathon I didn't sign up for, wrestled a particularly grumpy bear, and then been hastily reassembled using faulty software and leftover spare parts by indifferent technicians.

It wasn't just tiredness; it was a full system crash. My consciousness was buffering, lagging, struggling to process the sheer overload of the day – the abduction (let's call it what it was), the simulation, the cryptic technobabble, the magic reveal, the quota filler bombshell, and now this grating, condescending orientation speech from a high-strung teenage wizard CEO. My eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as if someone had attached small anchors to them. My head started to tilt forward, gravity suddenly feeling like an insurmountable, malevolent force.

No. Stay awake. Pay attention. Blend in. The rational part of my brain, the part responsible for basic survival instincts and avoiding unnecessary trouble, screamed frantic commands, but the connection to the operating system was failing spectacularly. My body wasn't listening. It craved oblivion. Shutdown. Emergency hibernation. Sleep. Anything but this.

Just… just for a second. Close my eyes… absorb the darkness… just for one… brief…

SMACK!

The sound cracked through the otherwise quiet room like a gunshot, sharp and shockingly loud.

My vision exploded into white static. Pain, sharp and electric, erupted across my left cheek, radiating outwards. My head snapped violently to the side, neck protesting with a sharp, immediate twinge. My ears rang with a high-pitched whine, drowning out everything else for a sickening, disorienting moment.

Disorientation. Confusion. What the actual—?

The world swam slowly back into focus, albeit blurry and tilted. My cheek burned, a hot, stinging sensation spreading rapidly across the skin. The ringing in my ears subsided jaggedly, replaced by a sudden, profound, awkward silence filling the cavernous room. Every single candidate was staring. Not at the Director anymore. At me.

And standing directly in front of me, practically vibrating with incandescent rage, was Olga Marie Animusphere. Her hand was still raised slightly, palm outward. Her face was flushed crimson, golden eyes blazing with a fury that seemed disproportionate even for finding someone asleep during her undoubtedly riveting speech.

My brain, sluggishly rebooting from the unexpected physical impact, finally connected the dots. The sharp sound. The burning pain. The focused silence. Her posture.

Oh.

I see.

My boss just slapped me. Across the face. Hard. In front of forty-seven witnesses, plus Mash. For falling asleep during her boring, jargon-filled orientation speech.

"Are you seriously falling asleep during my orientation!?" Olga Marie hissed, her voice trembling with barely contained fury. Each word was practically spat out, laced with venomous disbelief. "Do you have any conceivable idea where you are? The critical importance of this facility? The sheer, overwhelming gravity of our mission!?"

Mash, standing nearby, gasped audibly, her hand flying to her mouth, her expression a mixture of shock and genuine horror. Bless her concerned little heart. Probably never seen the Director resort to physical assault before. Or maybe she has, and this is just Tuesday.

I blinked slowly, deliberately, trying to process the situation without letting any emotion show. My cheek throbbed insistently. My pride… well, that was already pretty bruised from the whole 'unqualified quota filler' revelation, so this was just adding physical insult to existential injury. I opened my mouth. Paused. Considered the potential consequences of various sarcastic replies ranging from 'mildly insubordinate' to 'career-ending'. Closed it. Reopened it.

"…Define 'alright'," I managed, my voice dull, deliberately emotionless. Let her interpret that however she wanted.

Mash winced beside me, clearly anticipating further violence or at least a prolonged verbal tirade.

Olga Marie let out a sound somewhere between a strangled gasp of outrage and an aggravated huff of pure frustration. She glared daggers at me for another white-hot second, probably contemplating a follow-up slap or perhaps escalation to kicking, then spun on her heel with military precision, the motion sharp and angry. She stomped back towards the front podium, muttering furiously under her breath about "utterly useless commoners," "complete lack of discipline," "unbelievable incompetence," and "why me, why am I saddled with these rejects?"

So. That's my boss. Prone to physical assault when displeased or ignored. Fantastic. Truly inspiring leadership qualities on display. I mentally started a betting pool on how long it would take before she graduated from slapping insubordinate recruits to throwing heavy objects or possibly ordering summary executions. My money was on 'before lunchtime tomorrow.'

The furious muttering from the podium continued, a low drone of aristocratic displeasure underscoring the lingering awkward silence in the vast room. Great first impression, Hikigaya. Alienate the volatile, magically-empowered boss within minutes of arrival. Record time, even for me. This job was going swimmingly.

I took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to force down the throbbing in my cheek and the overwhelming urge to just lie down on the cold floor right here and embrace unconsciousness fully this time. Willing myself to focus felt like trying to hold water in a sieve. The fog in my head wasn't clearing; if anything, the adrenaline spike from the slap had made the subsequent crash even worse. The weight behind my eyes intensified, pressing inward relentlessly, making the bright monitors swim blearily. It felt like my brain was slowly drowning in cognitive sludge, overloaded and malfunctioning. The after-effects of that damned Spiritron Dive were hitting hard, and apparently, physical trauma didn't help.

Mash, having recovered slightly from her initial shock, hesitated for a moment before leaning closer, keeping her voice low so as not to attract further directorial wrath. Her violet eyes held genuine concern, which was… unexpected, and frankly, a little unsettling given our brief acquaintance.

"Senpai…" she began softly, glancing quickly towards the fuming figure at the podium and then back at me, specifically at the rapidly reddening handprint blooming on my face. "Maybe… maybe it would be better if you returned to your assigned quarters for now? The… the physiological effects of the simulation and initial Dive can sometimes linger, causing severe disorientation and extreme fatigue. Rest might be medically advisable."

I stared at her, processing her words through the thick mental haze. She was suggesting I leave. Bail on the mandatory orientation meeting run by the boss who just physically assaulted me. Because I fell asleep. And got slapped for it.

I blinked. "Let me see if I understand this," I said, my voice still flat, tinged with weary disbelief. "You're suggesting I go take a nap… as a direct consequence of falling asleep and getting slapped for it?" The logic felt vaguely circular, almost paradoxical. Isn't that rewarding bad behavior? Or maybe just acknowledging the inevitable shutdown of my system?

Mash blinked back, momentarily confused by my framing, then seemed to parse the underlying point. "Um…" A slight flush touched her cheeks. "Well… yes? If the underlying cause of your inability to remain conscious is physiological exhaustion resulting from the Dive, then addressing the cause through rest seems the most logical course of action. Continuing to stay here while clearly unwell seems counterproductive to both your health and potentially… maintaining operational harmony?" She glanced meaningfully, again, towards the fuming Director, who was now pointedly ignoring my existence while radiating waves of silent fury. Ah. Strategic retreat to de-escalate and avoid further 'incidents'. Makes a certain pragmatic sense.

I let out another sigh, this one heavier, carrying the full weight of my accumulating exhaustion and burgeoning apathy towards this entire clusterfuck of a situation. Logically, she was right. The Spiritron Dive aftermath was hitting me like a freight train. Attempting to push through it would be pointless, deeply miserable, and likely lead to more face-slapping incidents or collapsing in an even more inconvenient location later. I could tough it out, fueled by sheer spite and stubborn refusal to show weakness. That was usually my default setting when faced with unreasonable authority figures.

But realistically? Here, now? Faced with this staggering level of absurdity, working under a potentially unhinged teenage tyrant, for a mission I didn't understand, didn't sign up for, and was apparently unqualified to even witness?

I just didn't care enough to exert the effort. It wasn't worth the struggle. Minimum effort, maximum avoidance. That was the Hachiman way. And right now, retreating to a quiet, empty room felt like the path of least resistance and highest potential for blessed, uninterrupted unconsciousness. Provided no one else decided to barge in.

"…Fine." The word was grudging, but final. Conceding defeat to my own body felt less humiliating than enduring another second of this farce.

A small, soft smile touched Mash's lips, displacing some of the worry. Relief? Or just quiet satisfaction at successfully managing the problematic new recruit? Hard to tell. "Okay, Senpai. I will escort you to your room."

Without a backward glance at the glowering Director, the incomprehensible monitors, or the forty-seven other candidates (who were probably whispering excitedly about the new guy getting smacked down on day one), I turned and followed Mash out of the Command Room. The heavy doors hissed shut behind us, cutting off the low hum of machinery and the Director's lingering aura of palpable fury like a physical barrier.

Walking down the sterile corridor, the silence felt blessedly different from the tense quiet inside. Just the soft tap of Mash's armored boots on the polished floor and my own reluctant footsteps dragging slightly.

All things considered – the forced, non-consensual summoning, the dangerous simulation, the 'quota filler' revelation, the baffling technobabble, the introduction of actual magic nonsense, the physical assault by my new boss, the sheer overwhelming weirdness of it all – one conclusion was already crystal clear after just a few hours.

I already hated this job. With a burning passion usually reserved for group projects.

The walk wasn't long, just more identical white corridors blurring together in my fatigue-addled vision. Each turn looked exactly the same as the last. Mash stopped before a nondescript door, utterly indistinguishable from the dozens we'd passed. A quick swipe of a slim metallic card key – presumably assigned to me at some point during my unconscious processing, though I had no memory of receiving one – and the door slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss.

My assigned quarters. I stepped inside, and the sheer, oppressive blandness washed over me like a wave of beige paint. Plain, off-white walls, utterly devoid of any marking, decoration, or even scuff mark to hint at previous occupants. A narrow bedframe bolted to the floor, topped with a thin mattress and institutional grey bedding that looked both uncomfortable and vaguely flammable. A small, functional metal desk and matching chair, also bolted securely to the floor, presumably to prevent disgruntled employees from throwing them. No windows. No personal touches. No hint of anything remotely resembling comfort or individuality. It wasn't just minimalist; it felt aggressively impersonal, like a holding cell designed specifically to discourage any sense of permanence, attachment, or indeed, basic human dignity. Maximum efficiency, zero humanity. Entirely consistent with everything else I'd seen of Chaldea so far.

"Ah," I muttered under my breath, a dry, humorless sound escaping my lips. "A perfect architectural reflection of my inner life. How depressingly thoughtful of them."

Mash stepped inside behind me, her gaze sweeping the spartan room with a practiced neutrality that suggested she'd seen dozens just like it. She gave a slight, formal bow. "This will be your room, Senpai. Basic amenities should be stocked within the designated storage compartments."

I exhaled slowly through my nose, the recycled air tasting stale. "…Right." The word felt heavy, dragged down by the bone-deep exhaustion that had been lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for a moment of quiet to fully assert itself. Now that the adrenaline from the Command Room incident had faded completely, and I wasn't actively concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, the fatigue hit me like a physical blow. Standing suddenly felt like a monumental effort requiring conscious thought. My head swam, the bare walls seeming to ripple slightly.

Mash hesitated, her observant gaze lingering on me, noting the slight sway. The corner of her mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of professional concern. "Um… Senpai, forgive me for asking, but have you had anything to eat or drink since your arrival processing at Chaldea?"

The question seemed to float in the air, taking an embarrassingly long time for my sluggish brain to process. Food? Drink? When was arrival? Time felt slippery, distorted, measured only in stressful encounters and confusing revelations. "…Huh?" Was my eloquent reply.

She nodded slightly, as if confirming a preliminary diagnosis. "I thought perhaps not. You still appear quite pale, and the systemic after-effects of the Spiritron Dive can sometimes significantly impact blood sugar levels and cause dehydration." A brief pause. "If you would like, once you've had sufficient rest, I could show you the location of the main cafeteria later? Or guide you through accessing the nutritional paste dispenser system?" Nutritional paste? Oh god.

I stared at her. Was she serious? After witnessing my spectacular flameout, public humiliation, and near-narcoleptic collapse, she was offering to… guide me to lunch? Or worse, nutritional paste? Like this was some kind of bizarrely intense corporate onboarding buddy system?

"You say that," I began slowly, eyeing her with deep, ingrained suspicion, "as if 'voluntarily consuming institutional food, possibly paste, in the company of strangers' is a standard entry in my daily schedule. It typically ranks somewhere between 'elective root canal therapy' and 'attending a mandatory Zaimokuza script reading and feedback session'."

She tilted her head, seemingly unfazed by the deflection or the blatant antisocial declaration. Her expression remained placid, almost unnervingly calm. Analytical, perhaps. "Then… perhaps dinner instead? The evening meal cycle offers slightly more variety. Or I could inquire about having standard rations delivered directly to your quarters?"

Okay, what was her angle here? This level of persistent, unearned helpfulness was setting off every single alarm bell in my cynical brain. Was it pity for the slapped newbie? Some kind of mandated 'Candidate Support Specialist' duty she drew the short straw for? Or was she running some kind of long con, accumulating social debt points for a later, undoubtedly nefarious purpose? No one is this genuinely, neutrally helpful without a reason, especially not in a place that feels like a cross between a secret prison and a doomsday cult. People perform kindness; they rarely embody it without some form of incentive or ulterior motive. I squinted, trying to read her expression for any micro-expression betraying her true intent, but it remained a polite, earnest, slightly anxious mask. Suspicious. Highly suspicious.

Before I could voice my distrust or demand she reveal her true motives for offering basic human decency, a flash of white and pink fur launched itself dynamically from her shoulder, landing squarely back on my shoulder with unnerving familiarity and precision.

"Fou! Kyu!"

I flinched, tensing immediately, every nerve ending screaming in protest at the unexpected contact. "Get this damn fuzzball off me before I test its aerodynamic properties out the nearest airlock, assuming this place even has functioning airlocks," I growled, though the threat lacked real heat due to sheer, overwhelming exhaustion.

Mash actually giggled, a light, silvery sound that was jarringly out of place in the sterile room and the grim circumstances. "Fou seems to have taken a liking to you, Senpai. He says he'll look after you while I'm gone." It talks now? Or she's interpreting its squeaks? Equally disturbing.

I glared sideways at the smug creature currently nuzzling against my neck, emitting soft purring noises that sounded deceptively innocent. Liking me? More like asserting dominance and actively enjoying my palpable discomfort. The little beast radiated self-satisfaction. It knew this was bothering me. It was probably feeding off my negative energy like some kind of psychic vampire disguised as something cute and fluffy. Definitely a demon, or possibly a highly advanced parasitic organism designed in a lab.

Mash, oblivious to my internal monologue diagnosing her pet as a potential eldritch horror, or perhaps secretly amused by my suffering, smiled gently. "That actually sets my mind at ease somewhat." She clearly had far too much faith in the fluffy parasite's babysitting abilities or benevolent intentions.

With that, she gave another polite nod. "Now then, I should take my leave and report back. Please, rest well, Senpai." She paused at the door, glancing back one last time. "If we are fortunate, and circumstances permit, I believe we shall meet again soon."

If we're fortunate? Why phrase it like that? Like our meeting again was subject to random chance or some impending catastrophe? The girl had a weirdly ominous way of being polite. Or maybe she just knew something I didn't know about the standard life expectancy of candidates here.

Mash stepped out, and the door slid shut with a soft finality, leaving me in the sudden, heavy silence of the sterile room. Alone. Well, alone except for the furry little shoulder demon currently pretending to sleep peacefully on my clavicle, probably dreaming of stealing my soul.

Alright. Processing time. Situation analysis. Attempt to make sense of the escalating madness.

Summoned against my will? Check. Bodily digitized without consent? Check. Forced into a lethal simulation? Check. Revealed as unqualified quota filler? Check. Assaulted by a magically-empowered teenage boss with serious anger management issues? Check. Assigned living quarters apparently designed by depressed robots? Check. Befriended (provisionally) by an overly earnest girl with potentially ominous speech patterns and her possibly demonic, potentially sentient pet? Check. World might be ending, magic is real, and I hate everyone? Triple check.

…

…Nope. Still utterly baffling. None of it computed into anything resembling a sane, logical reality. It felt like I'd fallen into someone else's poorly written fanfiction.

I sighed, the sound rasping in my throat. Too tired to overthink further. Too tired to care about the bigger picture right now. Survival meant rest. I reached up to nudge Fou off my shoulder – it let out an indignant chirp but hopped nimbly onto the narrow bed – and then practically collapsed onto the mattress myself. It was as stiff and unyielding as expected, probably filled with recycled Kevlar vests and compacted corporate regulations, but I didn't care. The moment my body hit the horizontal, gravity seemed to multiply tenfold, pulling me down into a heavy, leaden state. Sweet, dark oblivion beckoned invitingly. My eyelids felt like concrete shutters slamming down. Just five minutes. Just a brief system reboot to clear the cache. That's all I needed. Just close my eyes… just for a seco—

BANG!

The door didn't just open; it exploded inward, slamming against the interior wall with the force of a small detonation. It bounced back slightly on protesting hinges, revealing a figure standing dramatically silhouetted in the doorway.

"Okay then, time for my super-secret, director-mandated nap break— wait. WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT!? WHO THE HECK ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY DESIGNATED SLACKING SANCTUARY!?" A finger pointed directly at my prone form, trembling with theatrical indignation.

I groaned, burying my face in the thin, scratchy pillow that smelled faintly of industrial cleaner. So much for rest. So much for five minutes. So much for anything resembling peace, quiet, or basic human dignity in this godforsaken facility. This place was actively hostile to the very concept of solitude.

I peeled my face off the depressing pillow, the groan escaping my lips before I could stop it. The guy in the doorway was still holding his dramatic 'intruder detected' pose, finger pointed accusingly. Tall, definite shock of fluffy orange hair that defied gravity, white lab coat hanging open over casual clothes, looking rumpled and lived-in.

Here we go. Does anyone in this place have a normal volume setting or a concept of knocking?

He lowered his finger slightly but advanced further into the room, gesturing wildly with both hands now. "This is supposed to be an empty room! It's my unofficial nap spot! My refuge! Who gave you permission to come in and contaminate my sacred slacking space!?"

Slacking off. He actually said it. Out loud. Blatantly admitting to avoiding work. Points for honesty, minus several million for professionalism, basic situational awareness, and contributing to the overall sense that this entire organization is run by clowns.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, gathering the minimal will required to speak. "...I was told this was my room," I droned, aiming for a tone of profound weariness, hoping the sheer lack of energy would somehow repel him like garlic against a vampire.

He blinked, visually processing this new information. The theatrical indignation seemed to deflate slightly, replaced by dawning, slightly confused realization. "Your room? This place?" He looked around the bare cell, then back at me with new scrutiny. "Oh... Ohhh, I see! So the last one finally showed up, huh? Candidate number forty-eight?"

The last one. There it was again. My official title seemed to be 'Quota Filler Number 48: The Late Arrival'. Fantastic. Word travels fast in the dysfunctional grapevine, apparently.

"...Well, who are you?" I asked, keeping my voice deliberately flat, resigned to this interaction. Might as well get the formalities over with so I could potentially resume attempting unconsciousness.

Instantly, he puffed up, placing a hand dramatically on his chest with practiced flair, striking a pose. "Who am I? Isn't it perfectly obvious from my intelligent demeanor and crisp lab coat that I'm a healthy, diligent, and incredibly hard-working doctor?" He beamed, radiating false modesty, as if expecting applause or perhaps a medal for just stating his profession.

The claim was so patently ludicrous, coming mere seconds after admitting he uses this supposedly assigned room to avoid work, that it bypassed annoyance entirely and landed somewhere near bleak, existential amusement. This place didn't even try to maintain plausible facades of competence or diligence. It wore its dysfunction proudly, like a badge of honor.

Even Fou, who'd relocated to the edge of the bed and was observing the newcomer with disdainful curiosity, let out a soft "Fou..." that sounded distinctly unimpressed, possibly even judgmental.

The man's beam didn't falter, seemingly impervious to rodent critique. "Well, nice to meet you," he started, then paused, his eyes flicking upwards as he presumably accessed my name from some internal memo he'd glanced at earlier. "Hikigaya-kun! Didn't think I would run into you like this, under such… relaxing circumstances for you, but let me introduce myself properly." More unnecessary preamble. Great.

"I'm the head of the medical department here at Chaldea, Romani Archaman." He gave a little flourish with his hand, like a stage magician revealing a particularly unimpressive card trick. "But, ah, for some reason I can't quite fathom, everyone just calls me Dr. Roman." He shrugged with exaggerated, feigned ignorance. "I don't know why, really, but it seems easier for people to pronounce, so please, feel free to call me Roman! Everyone does!"

Right. Because 'Romani Archaman' is a complex tongue-twister on par with ancient Sumerian verb conjugations, requiring a simpler, more approachable nickname. The logic was flawless.

He leaned in slightly, flashing another wide, friendly grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Fact is, 'Roman' has a nice ring to it, don't you think? It sounds cool and vaguely sweet, like a pleasant dream!"

Sweet? He was actually trying to sell his own nickname like it was a brand of artificially flavored candy. The sheer, unadulterated lack of professional self-awareness was almost breathtaking. Or maybe it was self-awareness, a deliberately crafted, non-threatening persona designed to put people at ease or lower their guard. Either way, it wasn't working on me. My guard was permanently up, especially around overly friendly people in positions of authority.

"...Right. Dr. Roman," I acknowledged tonelessly, deciding to use the preferred alias purely out of convenience and a desire to expedite this conversation towards its eventual, hopefully swift, conclusion.

"Yes, Roman is fine! Nice to meet you, Hikigaya-kun!" Roman chirped, seemingly pleased by my minimal acknowledgement. "I look forward to getting to know you better during our time here!"

An empty, meaningless pleasantry. Just what I needed to cap off this stellar day. My enthusiasm for 'getting to know him better' was, shall we say, profoundly contained. Likely locked in a lead-lined box at the bottom of a Marianas Trench of apathy.

Roman's gaze then drifted past me, widening slightly with sudden interest. "Huh? Oh, hey! On your shoulder—" He seemed to notice Fou properly for the first time, who had apparently decided my shoulder was prime real estate again while I was distracted by the doctor's introductory performance. "—is that the mysterious creature I've heard whispers about? The little guy who wanders around like he owns the place? Whoa, amazing! Nice to meet you!"

His attention snapped entirely to Fou, boyish excitement replacing the forced professional friendliness. He leaned closer, ignoring me completely now, apparently more interested in the potential novelty of the animal. "Mash told me a lot about him, but I didn't really believe a creature like that actually existed outside of her descriptions... Hey, hey, why don't I teach him some neat tricks? Maybe fetch?"

Before I could object to him attempting to train the probable shoulder demon using methods likely gleaned from dog training manuals, Roman extended a finger cautiously towards Fou. "Okay now, little guy, shake paw! Shake! If you do it well, I'll find you a tasty snack from the hidden stash in my desk."

Fou tilted his head, stared intently at Roman's outstretched finger for a long, silent moment, analysing the gesture with unnerving intelligence, then let out a soft, utterly dismissive "...Fou." He turned his head pointedly away, pointedly ignoring the doctor and his bribe attempt, radiating pure contempt.

Roman blinked, retracting his hand slowly. "Huh, what? He gave me a really pitying look, like I was offering him expired cheese, and then completely ignored me..." He sounded genuinely bewildered and slightly deflated by the rejection from a small, fluffy animal. Good. Maybe that would discourage further attempts at interaction.

He shook his head, seeming to recalibrate his approach. "A-Anyway," he stammered slightly, turning back to me, his expression shifting to one of shared understanding, or at least, what he perceived as shared understanding based on overheard gossip. "I think I get what's going on here. You're the rookie who just got here, barely conscious, then immediately got on the Director's bad side during orientation, right?"

I didn't bother confirming or denying. The lingering sting on my cheek was confirmation enough, and broadcasting my failures seemed unnecessary.

Roman grinned, clapping his hands together softly in a gesture of camaraderie. "Ah-ha! Then you and I are kindred spirits! Just so you know, I got thoroughly chewed out by her too, just a little while ago." He sighed dramatically, slumping his shoulders. "You know the big Rayshift experiment's about to start, right? The first real one. The entire staff's been mobilized, running around like headless chickens. Total chaos down there." He gestured vaguely towards the floor. "But since my primary job is supposed to be overseeing everyone's health during the shift… well, I theoretically had nothing vital to do until after they initiated it."

Wait, the head doctor has nothing to do during a major, potentially dangerous experiment involving human subjects being turned into volatile data packets and flung across spacetime? That sounded… fundamentally wrong. Negligent, even.

"The automated diagnostic machines are apparently far more accurate at reading the complex vital signs of the mages who are inside the specialized Coffins," he explained with another self-deprecating shrug. "So the Director basically said, 'When you're loitering around here being useless, Romani, everyone else starts slacking off too just by looking at you! Get out!' Then she physically threw me out of the Command Room. So I've been sulking in my designated sulking spot – which is supposed to be this room – ever since."

So, not only is he openly admitting to slacking off habitually, but his mere presence actively causes others to slack off, to the point the Director personally ejected him from the main control center during a critical, unprecedented operation. And this man is the Head of the Medical Department. The level of institutional dysfunction, incompetence, and sheer unprofessionalism permeating Chaldea was truly staggering. It wasn't just flawed; it seemed fundamentally broken at every level.

"But that's when you showed up, Hikigaya-kun!" Roman suddenly beamed again, his earlier deflation completely forgotten, latching onto my presence like a drowning man finding a floating piece of driftwood. "This is what they called a blessing in disguise, right? Fate! Since we both apparently have nowhere else to go and nothing better to do, why don't we spend some quality time together and deepen our newfound friendship!"

His suggestion – forced camaraderie born from mutual exile, shared incompetence, and proximity in a sterile room – landed with the subtle grace of a falling anvil made of pure awkwardness. Deepen our friendship. With this flaky, avoidant, nickname-peddling doctor who gets easily distracted by sentient fluffballs, admits to being a catalyst for workplace inefficiency, and was just kicked out of the mission control for being useless.

The urge to simply close my eyes again and hope he vanished into thin air through sheer force of will was overwhelming. This day just couldn't get any worse, could it?

WRRRRRN! WRRRRRN! WRRRRRN!

The sound wasn't just loud; it was physical. A piercing klaxon alarm erupted throughout the facility, the sound waves bouncing painfully off the bare walls of my cramped cell-like room. Simultaneously, harsh red emergency lights kicked on overhead, strobing rhythmically, painting everything in pulsing, bloody flashes that made my headache instantly worse. Above the deafening din, a cold, synthesized female voice sliced through the air, utterly devoid of emotion but saturated with chilling urgency.

"EMERGENCY. EMERGENCY. FIRE DETECTED IN CENTRAL POWER STATION BLOCK A. FIRE DETECTED IN CENTRAL COMMAND ROOM."

The Command Room? My brain latched onto that instantly. Where I'd just been minutes ago. Where Mash presumably still was. Where the slap-happy teenage Director and the other forty-seven potential casualties were gathered for their vital, world-saving briefing. Fire? How? An accident? Faulty wiring? Or something else?

The shift in Roman was startling, instantaneous. Gone, in a flash, was the slightly awkward, overly friendly, "cool and vaguely sweet" persona trying to sell his nickname like a used car salesman. Gone was the guy sulking about being kicked out for enabling slackers and trying to befriend sentient rodents. He snapped upright, posture suddenly rigid, tense, alert. The slightly unfocused, friendly-but-avoidant look in his eyes sharpened into keen, analytical focus. The fluffy-haired doctor trying to make friends vanished without a trace, replaced by someone radiating an unexpected and frankly unsettling aura of competence and seriousness. Seeing actual competence emerge from that facade felt jarring, almost wrong in the context of Chaldea's apparent pervasive dysfunction. It made my internal alarms ping louder and more insistently than the shrieking klaxons overhead.

"What…?" Roman breathed, his voice low, tight, devoid of its earlier lightness. He practically lunged towards the small integrated console built into the wall near the door – the one I mentally pegged as his secret anime-streaming station or illicit online shopping portal. His fingers flew across the touch interface with a speed and precision that utterly belied his earlier clumsiness, bringing up streams of rapidly scrolling data, diagnostic graphs, and structural schematics that were completely incomprehensible technobabble to me but clearly meant something dire to him.

The monotone synthesized voice continued its relentless, chilling report over the shrieking alarms:

"EXPLOSION DETECTED IN COMMAND ROOM PERIMETER WALLS. STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED."

"ACTIVATING CENTRAL AREA CONTAINMENT WALL BLAST SHIELDS IN 90 SECONDS."

"ALL STAFF EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY VIA DESIGNATED ROUTE THROUGH EMERGENCY GATE 2."

Explosion? Containment wall? Ninety seconds? Gate 2? Sounded important. Sounded acutely bad. Where the hell was Gate 2? I wasn't even sure where Gate 1 was. Wasn't I just in the Central Area? Did that mean...?

Before my sluggish, exhausted brain could fully parse the terrifying implications – Trapped? Need to run? Which way is out? Is there an out? – the world lurched violently sideways, as if the entire facility had been struck by a colossal underground hammer.

A brilliant, searing white flash erupted from the corridor outside, momentarily blinding me even through the partially open doorway. Microseconds later, the sound hit – a deafening BOOM that wasn't just heard, but felt deep in my bones. A concussive wave slammed through the structure, kicking the floor upwards beneath my feet like a struck drumhead. I was thrown off balance, stumbling sideways into the cold metal wall with bruising force. The entire room groaned, shuddering violently around me, rattling my teeth in their sockets. Dust and small chunks of ceiling material showered down like malevolent confetti. A deep, low-frequency thrum pulsed sickeningly through the air, vibrating in my chest.

That wasn't just a fire alarm malfunction. That was a bomb. Or a catastrophic reactor meltdown. Sabotage? Accident? Didn't matter right now. What mattered was that the situation had just escalated exponentially from 'weird, annoying, and possibly dangerous job' to 'actively apocalyptic death trap'.

"Damn it!" Roman swore viciously, his knuckles white where he gripped the console for balance amidst the tremors. His eyes darted frantically between the flickering data streams on the screen, the vibrating doorframe, and the streams of dust falling from the distressed ceiling panels. "Monitor! Give me Command Room internal visuals! Priority override Sigma-7!" His voice was sharp, authoritative, a commander's snap completely at odds with the doctor who'd been trying to teach Fou tricks using snack bribes moments ago. This sudden shift was deeply unnerving.

The small wall monitor – definitely the anime screen – flickered erratically to life, displaying mostly static and corrupted feeds before resolving into a jerky, chaotic image choked with thick smoke and dancing flames.

It was the Command Room. Or what was left of it. Twisted metal girders hung precariously from the shattered ceiling like broken teeth. Consoles sparked violently, shattered screens displaying diagnostic gibberish or ominous flatlines. Flames licked greedily at collapsed sections of the tiered seating and observation platforms. Thick, greasy black smoke made it hard to see clearly, obscuring details, but through the swirling haze… shapes. Indistinct forms scattered across the floor like broken dolls, partially buried under heavy chunks of concrete and debris. Some utterly still, sprawled in unnatural positions. Others twitching almost imperceptibly, movements lost in the shuddering of the structure itself.

Bodies. The staff from the orientation. The other candidates. A lump of ice formed in my stomach, cold and heavy, sinking fast. Like swallowing jagged stones that scraped all the way down.

My eyes scanned the horrifying tableau playing out on the unstable video feed, trying to force my brain to make sense of the carnage, to process the sheer scale of the destruction. Then, my gaze snagged, caught on a jarring patch of colour amidst the grey dust and orange flames near the front of the room, partially obscured by a massive fallen girder. Distinctive pale lilac hair, unmistakable even through the grime. A familiar profile, crumpled low near something large, round, metallic… a shield?

Mash.

My thought process hit a brick wall. Buffer overflow. Fatal system error. She was still in there. In that. The room I'd walked out of mere minutes ago, now transformed into a burning slaughterhouse. The icy weight in my stomach twisted violently, churning into something acrid and hot that crawled up the back of my throat – the unmistakable taste of bile mixed with a sudden, sharp, entirely illogical spike of… fear. Not for myself, trapped in this collapsing facility. For her. Which was stupid. Insane. Why should I care about the weirdly earnest, overly formal girl who insisted on calling me Senpai and had a potentially demonic pet?

"Roman." My voice came out flat. Dead. Disturbingly steady, a complete betrayal of the sudden, chaotic storm raging inside my chest.

He glanced back from the console, his face pale under the flashing red lights, grim, already smeared with dust from the falling ceiling. The goofy, slacker doctor was well and truly gone, replaced by someone staring catastrophe directly in the face. The strobing emergency lights carved harsh, moving shadows across his suddenly serious, almost haggard features.

"...Is anyone..." I started, the words feeling thick, clumsy, nonsensical. Pointless, really. "...Is everyone okay?" The question hung there in the vibrating air, monumentally stupid. The screen screamed the horrifying answer. I knew it intuitively. But some irrational part of me needed the verbal confirmation, the final push to shatter the lingering disbelief that this could actually be happening.

Roman didn't waste words on false hope or platitudes. He simply met my gaze across the shaking room, his expression tight, a disturbing mixture of the raw shock I felt mirrored in his own eyes and a grim, almost instantaneous professional acceptance of mass casualty disaster. He gave a single, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Right. Of course. The answer I expected. The answer I dreaded.

Closing my eyes for a fraction of a second, letting the darkness briefly swallow the strobing red hellscape, I felt that familiar, bitter wave wash over me. That cold, unwelcome confirmation. I hate being right about things like this.

Just as that confirmation landed, heavy and final, a blur of white fur shot past my legs, startling me. Fou. The little creature had been silent on the bed, watching the chaos unfold with unnerving stillness. Now, with a sharp, high-pitched "Kyu!" – a sound raw with undeniable distress, utterly unlike its earlier annoyed chirps – it leaped nimbly down and bolted out the open doorway, a tiny white streak vanishing instantly into the smoke-filled, debris-strewn, chaos-filled corridor. Heading directly back towards the epicenter. Towards the Command Room. Towards Mash.

Mash. Her name echoed in my head, no longer just a visual on a flickering, unstable screen. The girl who'd found me unconscious on the floor. The one who tried to patiently explain this facility's insanity. The one who showed inexplicable concern for the unqualified newbie. The one currently buried under tons of rubble in a burning, exploding death trap.

My muscles tensed without conscious thought. Adrenaline, unbidden and unwelcome, surged through my system again, sharpening my senses, making my heart pound against my ribs like a trapped bird. I took a half-step towards the door, instinctually following the path Fou had taken into the maelstrom.

And then froze.

Hold on. A cold splash of rationality hit me like ice water. What the hell are you doing, Hikigaya? Reacting instinctively? Running towards the explosion? Towards the fire, the collapsing structure, the certain death and unknown danger? You? The guy whose primary life goal is expending the absolute minimum effort required for basic survival and avoiding hassle?

My brain, bless its cynical, ruthlessly pragmatic core, immediately supplied a dozen perfectly valid, logical reasons to stop. Stay put. This room is relatively intact, for now. This is not your problem. You are Candidate 48, the untrained, unqualified quota filler. You are a liability, not an asset in a disaster scenario. You are not a hero. Professionals are supposed to handle this. (A quick mental scan suggested the available professional pool might have been drastically, fatally reduced moments ago, but the principle still stood.) Survival first. Keep your head down. Don't be an idiot. Don't get involved.

It was all perfectly logical. Sound reasoning. The Hikigaya Hachiman survival doctrine in action. I even found myself nodding slightly in visceral agreement with my own internal monologue. Yes. Stay here. Wait for rescue. Or at least wait for the containment walls to seal you safely (or perhaps permanently) inside, whatever. Smart move. The logical move.

But my legs weren't listening to the smart move. Even as I nodded internally, they started moving again. Past the frantically working Roman who was shouting into a comm system now, past the threshold of the relative safety of the room, out into the dim, smoky, alarm-filled, actively collapsing corridor.

Why? I couldn't articulate it, even to myself. No sudden, inexplicable onset of heroism. No delusion of competence or ability to actually help. Just… a feeling. A deep, nauseating certainty churning low in my gut, overriding decades of carefully cultivated apathy and ingrained self-preservation instincts.

It was the premonition of regret. That familiar, acrid taste rising alongside the bile. The cold, hard knowledge that doing nothing now, staying safe in this room while she was in there… that inaction would fester. It would become another piece of scar tissue on my already damaged psyche, another thing to quietly hate myself for later, in the dead of night, in a way that simply running away and surviving somehow wouldn't. It was the irrational, inefficient, fundamentally stupid part of my core programming I thought I'd successfully debugged after the whole damn dog incident years ago. Apparently not.

"Hikigaya-kun!" Roman's voice, sharp with genuine alarm, cut through the din from behind me. He'd turned from the console, seeing me leave. "Wait! Where are you going!? It's chaos out there! The Command Room is ground zero! The containment protocol activates in less than a minute! You'll be trapped!"

I didn't turn back. Didn't pause. Didn't offer an explanation I didn't truly have, other than a raw, illogical compulsion. His warning faded behind me as I broke into a clumsy, stumbling run down the shuddering, smoke-filled corridor, following the lingering memory of a desperate flash of white fur. If I stopped to think, if I hesitated for even a second, the logic would win. My survival instinct would reassert control. And right now, for some completely insane, self-destructive reason, losing to logic felt marginally less awful than the alternative crushing weight of future self-loathing.

Saved a dog, got hit by a car. Now trying to save a person by running directly into an explosion. You never learn, do you, Hachiman? The self-mockery was automatic, bleak, and entirely accurate.

The corridor outside my assigned room was barely recognizable from the pristine white passage I'd walked down minutes earlier. What had been sterile white was now choked with thick, acrid black smoke that stung my eyes and clawed raspingly at the back of my throat with every painful inhale. Emergency lights pulsed erratically, malfunctioning, casting the scene in strobing flashes of hellish red, making shadows leap and twist like phantoms dancing in the ruins. The air vibrated continuously with the piercing shriek of alarms and the deeper, groaning stress of the entire facility tearing itself apart around me.

Fire licked greedily at exposed wiring bundles dangling like malevolent vines from the buckled ceiling panels. Sparks showered down nearby as a damaged electrical conduit short-circuited spectacularly. The floor, buckled and uneven from the blast wave, trembled almost constantly under my feet, punctuated by distant, muffled thuds of secondary explosions or collapsing structures and the sharp crack of failing structural supports nearby. Somewhere deeper in the facility, another, heavier explosion roared, making the very walls shudder violently around me. Dust and debris rained down constantly, forcing me to shield my face with one arm as I ran, stumbling over unseen obstacles hidden in the smoke.

It was chaos. Pure, terrifying, unadulterated chaos. The world – or at least this sealed-off, technologically advanced chunk of it – was actively, violently breaking apart around me.

And somehow, I kept moving. Stumbling, coughing wretchedly, vision blurring from smoke and exertion, but moving forward. Towards the epicenter.

Why? The question echoed somewhere in the recesses of my mind, muffled by the overwhelming adrenaline dump and the sheer sensory overload of the disaster unfolding. It wasn't bravery. It certainly wasn't heroism. I didn't have a plan. I had no idea what I'd possibly do if I even reached the Command Room, assuming it was still structurally accessible. I didn't possess any skills remotely relevant to disaster rescue or emergency first aid.

I just… ran.

Because the image of Mash's lilac hair amidst the rubble on that flickering screen wouldn't leave my head. Because Fou, that ridiculous, inexplicably loyal furball, had run this way without hesitation. Because stopping felt impossible now. Stopping meant acknowledging the sheer, overwhelming terror of the situation, letting it paralyze me. Stopping meant letting the rational part of my brain take over again, the part screaming relentless warnings about self-preservation and the utter futility of this gesture. Stopping meant thinking clearly.

And right now, thinking clearly felt dangerous. Far more dangerous than running headlong towards an explosion. Thinking meant confronting the stark reality of the situation, the probable deaths, the certainty of failure, the crushing weight of the regret that was already nipping hard at my heels. It was easier – simpler – to just move, propelled forward by a borrowed sense of urgency and the desperate, primal need to do something, anything, other than cower alone in a room waiting for the ceiling to inevitably collapse or the containment walls to seal my tomb.

My lungs burned with every ragged inhale of smoke-filled, chemically tainted air. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, terrified drumbeat against the cacophonous symphony of destruction. The lingering exhaustion from the Spiritron Dive, the throbbing ache in my slapped cheek, the general physical malaise of the whole damn day pressed down on me, a leaden weight behind my eyes and deep in my limbs. But I pushed it down, shoved it aside, forced my way forward through the choking haze and the violent tremors.

One thought managing to cut through the noise, a single, irrational anchor in the storm:

Find her.

Find Mash.

Rounding a final, crumbling corner, pushing past a cascade of sparking power cables and a warped section of metal paneling that must have once been part of the pristine corridor wall, I stumbled breathlessly into what remained of the Central Command Room.

Or rather, the smoking crater where it used to be.

The change from the room I'd left was absolute, jarring, sickening. The cavernous, sterile white space I'd stood in less than an hour ago, filled with the low hum of advanced technology and the nervous energy of forty-seven other candidates, was simply… gone. Obliterated. Reduced to wreckage and ruin.

The air hit me first – thick, choking, tasting of ash and something electrical. It burned my already raw throat and lungs. The smell was a sickening, complex cocktail: burning plastic insulation, superheated metal, sharp ozone from fried electronics, and underneath it all, something else… something heavier, metallic, cloyingly sweet yet nauseatingly coppery, organic. The unmistakable smell of death on a large scale.

My eyes, streaming uncontrollably from the thick smoke, struggled to adjust to the hellscape revealed by the flickering flames and the still-pulsing red emergency lights. Flames still writhed hungrily in several corners, feeding on shattered consoles and overturned furniture, casting flickering, demonic light across the utter devastation. Entire sections of the reinforced outer walls had collapsed inward, burying large parts of the room under tons of shattered concrete and twisted steel reinforcing bars. Massive structural support beams, bent and twisted like licorice sticks by the force of the blast, jutted out from the rubble pile at unnatural, impossible angles – like the broken ribs of some colossal, dying mechanical beast. The huge, panoramic screens that had displayed SHEBA's complex calculations and the serene blue map of the world were now either completely dark, lifeless voids or spiderwebbed with deep cracks, flickering erratically with corrupted data streams, error messages, and blinding static. The very heart of Chaldea, its control center, had been violently ripped out and destroyed.

And the bodies—

I stopped dead just inside the shattered threshold, my breath catching raggedly in my throat. My stomach lurched violently, threatening revolt.

They were everywhere. Strewn across the wreckage-choked floor like discarded mannequins tossed aside carelessly by some giant, enraged child. Uniforms, white and pristine mere minutes ago, were now torn, burned black, and stained dark crimson with horrifying patterns. Limbs lay at impossible, broken angles. Some faces stared blankly, unseeingly, at the ruined ceiling, mouths agape in silent, final screams. These were the technicians, the operators, the support staff I'd vaguely registered bustling around earlier, looking busy and important. Now just…Scattered, broken, silenced.

This is real.

The thought slammed into my consciousness with the force of a physical blow, cold and sharp, cutting through the adrenaline fog and the lingering tendrils of exhaustion. This wasn't the detached, consequence-free violence of the simulation. This wasn't a drill, wasn't some elaborate, fucked-up training exercise designed to test our reactions.

I swallowed hard against the rising tide of nausea, the coppery taste intensifying in the back of my throat. I hadn't known any of them. Hadn't spoken to them, barely even looked at them directly. They were just anonymous background figures in the bizarre, unfolding stage play my life had suddenly become. And yet… seeing them like this, reduced from living, breathing beings to mere obstacles in the debris field… that sick, twisting feeling coiled tighter and tighter in my gut. A primal, visceral sense of wrongness that somehow transcended my usual apathy and detachment.

My fists clenched automatically at my sides, nails digging painfully into my palms, the small flare of pain a grounding sensation amidst the overwhelming horror. Does it even matter? A familiar, cynical voice whispered defensively in the back of my head, trying to erect shields. They're strangers. This isn't your fault. This isn't your problem. It never was. Focus on your own survival. Find a way out.

But the justification felt hollow, brittle, failing utterly to shield me from the sheer, brutal reality laid bare before my eyes. The problem wasn't just the immediate danger of the situation anymore. It was the undeniable, inescapable fact of mass death, right here, right now, surrounding me.

My cynical internal monologue sputtered and died abruptly as a sound, impossibly small and fragile against the ambient roar of flames and the groaning protest of stressed metal, pierced the chaos.

"…Uhn… Oh…"

It was barely a gasp, more breath than voice, but it was distinctly human. And close. Coming from near the center of the ruined chamber. My head snapped towards the source, eyes scanning frantically through the swirling smoke and shifting debris near where the Director's podium used to be.

And then I saw her.

Partially buried beneath a colossal, twisted section of what looked like a collapsed ceiling support beam and the heavy diagnostic console it had crushed. Pinned. Trapped under a jagged pile of concrete chunks, sparking conduits, and shattered plasteel plating. Mash Kyrielight.

She was alive. But only just, judging by her posture and the stillness.

Her face was deathly pale beneath the streaks of soot and grime. A deep gash on her forehead oozed blood sluggishly, matting her distinctive pale lilac hair dark red. Her usually pristine white and black uniform was ripped and shredded in multiple places, stained darkly crimson across her side and shoulder where metal shards might have struck. Lying partially beneath her, acting as a fragile buffer against the full weight of the debris... was her shield – that absurdly oversized circular thing she carried with her earlier. It was heavily scarred, scored deep by the impact, its surface marred, edges chipped and dented where concrete had struck with crushing force, yet somehow it hadn't crumpled or shattered entirely under the tons of steel and concrete pinning it. Looked less like engineered metal, more like... petrified stubbornness given physical form. Impossible resilience. Or maybe just luck.

Forgetting the corpses surrounding me, forgetting the licking flames, forgetting the imminent danger of further structural collapse, I scrambled clumsily over shattered consoles and the broken bodies of the less fortunate towards her position. My hands found the largest piece of wreckage directly pinning her legs – a heavy, bent steel I-beam, probably weighing several hundred kilos, wedged tightly against fallen concrete. I gripped the cold, sharp edge, feeling the rough metal bite into my palms.

It didn't budge. Not even a millimeter. Felt like trying to lift a small car with my bare hands. Utterly, demonstrably useless. Pointless effort.

I pulled anyway. Straining, grunting, putting every ounce of my inadequate, untrained strength into it. Pure reflex. Pure futility. Driven by something other than logic.

Nothing. It was hopelessly wedged, immovable by normal human strength.

A soft groan, and her eyelids fluttered open weakly. Her violet eyes, hazy with pain and shock, struggled to focus on my face looming above her in the smoky red gloom. Recognition flickered faintly within them after a moment.

"…Sen…pai…?" she whispered, her voice raspy, thin, fading in and out. It sounded like trying to speak through broken glass. A weak cough rattled her chest, making her wince. "…It's… all right…"

She attempted a smile, a faint, trembling curve of her lips that didn't reach her pain-filled eyes. It was the most profoundly sad, utterly defeated expression I had ever witnessed on a human face.

"You… You can't… lift it…" she breathed, her gaze drifting past me towards the blocked, burning exit routes. The resignation in her eyes was absolute. "Don't… mind me… Please… Run… Save yourself… While you still can…"

I stared down at her, at the quiet acceptance of her fate settling into her features like a shroud. Run? Leave her here to die alone under a pile of rubble in this burning hellhole?

I knew that look. I'd seen variations of it before. Not usually in literal life-or-death situations, granted, but the underlying sentiment was depressingly familiar. It was the look of someone quietly giving up, someone who had already decided they weren't worth the effort, that their predicament was inevitable, that struggling was pointless noise before the inevitable silence. The look of someone convinced, deep down, that they don't deserve to be saved. I saw it reflected in the mirror often enough. And seeing it directed outwards, so starkly, so hopelessly… it resonated with something deeply cynical and fundamentally contrarian within me.

My jaw tightened, muscles clenching along my neck.

"...No." The word came out harsher, sharper than I intended. More of a snarl than a statement. "Screw that."

Her eyes widened slightly, the haze clearing just a fraction as surprise – raw, uncomprehending surprise – registered through the pain and shock. Good. Wake up. Don't just lie there waiting to die.

Mash stared up at me, bewildered, perhaps frightened, by my sharp, almost angry refusal. That flicker of surprise, that brief crack in her wall of resignation, was all the perverse confirmation I needed. Giving up wasn't an option, not if I had to stand here and watch it happen.

Ignoring the screaming protest from my already exhausted and abused muscles, I planted my feet wider on the unstable rubble, trying to find some semblance of solid footing amidst the shifting debris. I adjusted my grip on the jagged edge of the massive I-beam, ignoring the way the cold, rough metal bit painfully into my raw palms.

"Look, if you sincerely want to die here, crushed under half a ton of substandard building materials, fine," I muttered, my voice low and strained with effort, mostly talking to myself, framing it as annoyance rather than anything resembling concern. It was easier that way. Safer. "That's your prerogative, I guess. But if I just stand here and watch you check out because you couldn't be bothered to even try to get out from under… yeah, that's going to seriously piss me off later when I'm inevitably reflecting on my life choices."

A dry, humorless approximation of a laugh scraped its way up my raw throat. It sounded brittle, almost manic, dangerously close to hysteria, even to my own ears.

"…And frankly," I continued, focusing the anger, the frustration, the sheer unfairness of it all into raw physical effort, "my personal quota for soul-crushing regrets is already dangerously over capacity for one lifetime, thanks very much." Especially after just witnessing... all this surrounding us. Adding 'passively watched a girl resign herself to death under rubble because it was too hard to move' wasn't going on that list if I could possibly, physically prevent it.

And just leaving her here felt… wrong. Not just inconvenient for my future conscience, but fundamentally… inauthentic. Like defaulting back to the easy, empty path of detached avoidance I was supposedly trying so desperately to escape after that whole Ferris wheel incident. Tch. Fine. Motivation acquired, however twisted.

I locked my eyes on the point where the heavy beam pinned her legs, trapping her. Too heavy. Still impossibly heavy by any rational measure. The logical part of my brain screamed futility, warning of pulled muscles, spinal injury, wasted effort. Didn't matter. Adrenaline, spite, sheer goddamn stubborn contrarianism – whatever volatile cocktail it was fueling me now, I channeled it. I took a deep, ragged breath, tasting ash and smoke and the coppery tang of blood in the air, and pulled.

Not just with my arms, but throwing my entire body weight into it, leveraging myself against the immovable object with everything I had. Every muscle in my back, shoulders, and legs screamed in immediate, agonizing protest. My vision tunnelled slightly at the edges, darkening. Black spots danced before my eyes like angry static. The strain was immense, radiating outwards from my core, threatening to tear something vital. It felt less like lifting and more like trying to rip reality apart through sheer, bloody-minded force of will.

Because if I stopped, if I hesitated even for a second, if I acknowledged the physical impossibility… then I'd have to admit defeat. I'd have to admit I wasn't the kind of person who could make even a marginal difference, even when motivated by something as base and selfish as avoiding future regret. And admitting that, right here, right now, surrounded by death and failure, felt somehow worse than tearing every single muscle in my body simultaneously.

Mash gasped beside me, a sharp intake of breath, her eyes wide, no longer hazy but fixed on me with stark disbelief and maybe… a flicker of something else? Hope?

Then, something gave. A loud, sharp CRACK! echoed through the immediate vicinity, painfully close. Was it the beam finally yielding slightly to the impossible pressure? Or was it one of my vertebrae expressing its profound disagreement with my current life choices by snapping cleanly in two? Impossible to tell in the moment. Didn't care.

Because the monolithic weight shifted. Not much. Maybe only a few centimeters. Just enough. But it moved. The crushing pressure pinning Mash visibly lessened.

Her breath hitched again, sharp and sudden. Hope? Increased pain from the movement? Both?

No time to analyze. I immediately released my death grip on the beam, ignoring the throbbing agony radiating through my arms and back, and reached down, grabbing her uninjured arm near the shoulder. The fabric of her uniform was sticky with something warm and wet. Probably her blood.

"Mash," I grunted, forcing the name out through clenched teeth, the effort making spots dance in my vision again. "Can you move? At all? Can you stand if I pull?"

She hesitated for a precious second, blinking rapidly, maybe processing the sudden, impossible change, the miracle shift. Then, grimacing heavily against the searing pain, she gave a slow, tentative nod, her eyes locking onto mine with newfound, desperate determination.

Okay. Step one, irrational defiance. Step two, miracle apparently fueled by pure spite and adrenaline. Now for step three: getting the hell out of this collapsing death trap before something else falls on us.

I braced myself, planting my feet as firmly as possible on the treacherous rubble, and pulled her upwards, hauling her weight against mine, carefully draping her uninjured arm securely over my shoulders.

Damn. She was heavier than she looked. Solid muscle under the slight frame, probably from hauling that ridiculous shield everywhere. Or maybe the adrenaline surge was already fading rapidly, leaving me with the stark reality of my own pathetic physical condition and dwindling strength. Either way, supporting her weight while navigating this obstacle course wasn't going to be easy. Or fast.

I barely had time to properly adjust my grip, trying to distribute Mash's weight across my shoulders without collapsing myself under the load, when it spoke again. The same cold, impassive, synthesized female voice from the emergency broadcast system, cutting through the crackle of flames and the groan of stressed metal with unnerving clarity. It seemed to emanate from speakers that had somehow survived the blast and fire, or perhaps directly into our minds via some remaining technological link.

"WARNING: TO ALL OBSERVATION STAFF. CHALDEAS INTERNAL STATE HAS UNDERGONE CRITICAL CHANGE."

Chaldeas? My gaze instinctively snapped towards the center of the destroyed room, where the massive sphere housing the planetary simulation hung. Miraculously, the sphere itself appeared largely undamaged structurally, though the delicate arrays of monitoring instruments surrounding its base were shattered, sparking, and burning. But something was terribly, fundamentally wrong with the sphere itself.

The serene, glowing blue marble – the miniature Earth representing humanity's stable future, the whole supposed point of this entire ludicrous facility – was shifting drastically. The familiar, calming azure blue faded rapidly, bled away like watercolor paint washed down a drain, replaced by an angry, incandescent, pulsing red. It wasn't just red; it throbbed sickly, like a diseased heart on the verge of bursting, bathing the wreckage, the scattered corpses, and us in a hellish, bloody light. It looked diseased. Malignant. Corrupted. Like the entire planet had caught fire from the inside out, or something vast and terrible had simply… devoured its future whole.

The impassive voice continued, its emotionless delivery making the words land with even more chilling weight.

"NOW REWRITING SHEBA NEAR-FUTURE PREDICTION DATA BASED ON CURRENT OBSERVATIONAL VALUES AND REAL-TIME SENSOR READINGS."

A pause that stretched, thick with unspoken dread, filled only by the roar of flames and the creak of failing metal.

"UNABLE TO DETECT EXISTENCE OF MANKIND ONE HUNDRED YEARS INTO THE FUTURE ON GLOBAL COORDINATE SCALE."

"UNABLE TO CONFIRM SURVIVAL OF ANY HUMAN LIFEFORMS PAST CALENDAR YEAR 2017."

"UNABLE TO GUARANTEE THE CONTINUED EXISTENCE, STABILITY, OR FOUNDATION OF THE HUMAN ORDER."

A final, chilling pause, then the synthesized conclusion, delivered with the same flat affect as a weather report:

"CONCLUSION: HUMANITY'S FUTURE, AS PREVIOUSLY OBSERVED AND GUARANTEED, HAS BEEN EXTINGUISHED."

Mash stiffened beside me, her entire body going rigid, a tremor running through her. Her fingers, previously just resting lightly on my arm for balance, dug into my sleeve with surprising, painful strength. A sharp, horrified gasp escaped her lips, choked off halfway. Her eyes were locked on the pulsating red sphere, wide with utter disbelief and naked terror.

I let out a slow, heavy breath, watching the angry red glow paint Mash's pale, blood-streaked face in demonic hues. The smoke I exhaled mingled with the dust motes dancing thickly in the crimson light. So. That was it, then. The big reveal. The final punchline to the cosmic joke that was Chaldea.

"…So that's the play, huh?" I muttered, the words tasting like ash and resignation. My own shock felt distant, muted, somehow less important than the immediate horror of the room and the crushing exhaustion dragging me down. Maybe the concept was just too big, too abstract, too final to process fully right now. "Game over. Please insert coin to continue. Assuming coins still exist."

Mash's breath hitched, coming in uneven, shallow gasps. She swallowed convulsively, still staring mesmerized at the malevolent red glow of Chaldeas, the heart of their failure. "…H-Humanity… is… extinguished?" Her voice was barely a whisper, frayed at the edges with shock, threatening to break entirely. The concept was too vast, too sudden, too absolutely final.

I sighed, the sound weary, resigned. "Yeah," I confirmed flatly, because what else was there to say? Sugar-coating the apocalypse seemed rather pointless, didn't it? "Looks like we're officially, comprehensively, irrevocably screwed."

She flinched at the bluntness, as if the direct words hammered the impossible reality into solid, undeniable form. I couldn't blame her. It wasn't supposed to be real. None of this. Chaldea, the simulations, the Servants, the Rayshift technology… it was all supposed to be some high-tech, slightly shady, definitely weird research job, maybe involving saving the world in some metaphorical sense, but not this. Not the literal, quantifiable end of everything human. And yet, the cold dread pooling in my gut, the sight of the bodies surrounding us, the pulsating red eye of Chaldea staring back accusatory… it felt sickeningly, undeniably real.

Mash bit her lip hard enough to draw fresh blood, forcing her gaze away from the horrifying sphere and down towards the floor, towards the inescapable reality of the dead surrounding us in the ruins. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of it all. "So… that's why…" she whispered, realization dawning dark and grim in her pain-filled eyes. "The explosion… the fire… The containment wall activation warning…" She looked up at me, her expression hollow, filled with a new kind of despair. "They sealed us inside. Deliberately. Because of this. Now… now we can't get out. We're trapped in here with… with the end."

Trapped. Buried alive in a high-tech tomb at the apparent end of the world. No communication with the outside. No obvious escape route. No future, inside or out. A perfect storm of absolute hopelessness. Just great.

I shifted my weight, rolling my shoulder slightly to better support her, ignoring the sharp twinge of protest from my abused back muscles. Just another Tuesday, apparently. End of the world, trapped in a burning building, supporting a wounded girl... typical. "...Well," I said, injecting a note of weary cynicism I didn't entirely feel but clung to out of sheer force of habit, a familiar defense mechanism. "Not the first time I've found myself backed into a corner with no obvious way out and questionable company." Just usually, the stakes involved social annihilation or failing a group project, not actual planetary extinction. Small difference in scale, really.

Mash blinked, staring at me as if I'd just sprouted a second head and started reciting poetry backwards. The sheer, utter incongruity of my statement in the face of armageddon seemed to momentarily short-circuit her rising panic, leaving her momentarily bewildered.

Mash's bewildered stare at my inappropriate, probably trauma-induced coping mechanism was interrupted by the impassive synthesized voice, continuing its litany of doom as if we weren't standing amidst the wreckage of its own control room, surrounded by the corpses of its operators. It seemed utterly indifferent to our survival or imminent incineration by collapsing structure.

"ASSESSING COFFIN VITAL SIGNS FOR REMAINING POTENTIAL MASTER CANDIDATES WITHIN THE CENTRAL AREA…"

"ERROR DETECTED. BIOMETRIC BASELINE NOT REACHED FOR CANDIDATES 1 THROUGH 47. LIFE SIGNS CLASSIFIED AS CRITICAL, FADING, OR TERMINATED."

"RAYSHIFT INITIATION REQUIREMENT – IDENTIFICATION OF QUALIFIED AND STABLE MASTER – NOT MET."

A cold premonition slid down my spine, colder than the sweat suddenly trickling there despite the heat from the flames. Oh no. With the Director and the other 'qualified' mage personnel almost certainly vaporized, crushed, or otherwise incapacitated, and the automated system needing someone to authorize or pilot whatever function it was trying to perform…

"COMMENCING SEARCH FOR ALTERNATIVE QUALIFYING MASTER AMONG SURVIVING FACILITY PERSONNEL WITHIN RANGE… SEARCHING… SUBJECT FOUND."

I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief second, bracing myself. Don't say it. Please, for the love of whatever indifferent deity oversees cosmic misfortune and institutional incompetence, don't say my name. Deep down, in the cynical pit of my stomach where bad feelings festered and worst-case scenarios were born, I already knew. My brief moment of not-quite-heroism in lifting that beam, or maybe just the fact that I was still conscious and ambulatory, probably flagged me on some internal sensor grid as 'not completely useless' or, more likely, 'still breathing and technically possesses compatible Magical Circuits'.

"CANDIDATE NO. 48, HACHIMAN HIKIGAYA. COMPATIBILITY CONFIRMED VIA SIMULATION RECORDS AND INITIAL DIVE SCAN. BIOMETRICS CURRENTLY STABLE WITHIN ACCEPTABLE PARAMETERS. RESETTING DESIGNATION. PROMOTING TO MASTER STATUS."

My body went rigid, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by a jolt like touching a live wire carrying bad news. Ah. There it was. The inevitable, ironic punchline. The universe, having failed to kill me immediately in the explosion, decided to promote me to middle management instead. The final, unwanted nail in the coffin of my already thoroughly derailed life, gift-wrapped with a burning bow and labeled 'Congratulations, You're Drafted into the Apocalypse Rescue Squad. Good Luck, Loser.'

Compatible? Stable? Me? What skewed, malfunctioning algorithm decided the guy actively trying to disengage from reality, the untrained quota filler with zero discernible useful skills beyond sarcasm and people-watching, was prime leadership material for saving humanity? Did the system mistake deep-seated apathy for unflappability under pressure? Or was it just scraping the absolute bottom of the barrel out of sheer desperation? Probably the latter.

Because of course. Of course this would happen to me. When things go catastrophically wrong, find Hikigaya Hachiman and somehow make them objectively worse by involving him directly. It seemed to be a universal constant.

Beside me, Mash gasped softly, her head whipping around to look at me, surprise warring with the pain and residual fear on her face. "Senpai… you're… a Master now?"

I ignored the confirmation, the implication, the sheer crushing weight of unwanted responsibility. Breathed out slowly, deliberately through my nose. Opened my eyes again. Shoved the mounting existential dread and panic down violently. Compartmentalize. Deal with the immediate problem. The world ending? Fine. Whatever. Being drafted into saving it? Fine. Whatever. Getting crushed by falling debris or incinerated? Not fine. Survival first.

"…Figures," I bit out, the single word clipped and harsh, laden with years of accumulated resignation to cosmic misfortune.

I forced my attention back to Mash, ignoring the faint trembling that had started in my own hands now. "Mash," I said, my voice regaining some semblance of detached steadiness through sheer willpower. "We need to move. Now. Can you walk? Or at least hobble convincingly enough to get us out of the immediate collapse zone?"

She hesitated, glancing around nervously at the unstable wreckage creaking ominously above us, then back at me, the newly minted, completely unqualified 'Master'. She gave another slow, pained nod, determination hardening in her eyes. "I… I think so. If you help me."

"Good enough for me."

Just as I prepared to take a tentative first step, dragging her with me, the synthesized voice droned on again, initiating the next phase of whatever catastrophic emergency protocol was currently underway, completely ignoring our immediate peril.

"MASTER QUALIFICATION MET. PROCEEDING WITH EMERGENCY PROCEDURE AS PER DIRECTOR ANIMUSPHERE'S FINAL STANDING ORDER 77."

"ACTIVATING UNSUMMON PROGRAM. CODE: FIRST ORDER."

"SPIRITRON CONVERSION FOR FORCED RAYSHIFT INITIATION, START."

The very air around us seemed to shimmer visibly, to thin out, becoming unstable. A low, resonant hum vibrated through the floor, through my bones, deeper and more pervasive than the rumble of the explosions or the shriek of the alarms. It felt like reality itself was becoming fluid, unstable, preparing to unravel or tear. The bloody light from Chaldeas intensified dramatically, painting everything in stark, elongated, dancing shadows.

Mash hesitated again, her good hand tightening its grip on my arm almost painfully. Then, very softly, her voice trembling slightly but carrying clearly over the rising hum:

"…Senpai?"

I glanced down at her. Her face was pale, waxen in the crimson light, eyes wide and fixed on mine. The tough, resilient facade she'd tried to maintain earlier was crumbling fast under the combined weight of injury, trauma, and the apparent end of the world.

"…Would you… mind terribly… if maybe… holding my hand?"

I followed her gaze down to her outstretched hand. Her fingers were visibly trembling, stained with grime and possibly her own blood. Her expression was a desperate, fragile attempt at bravery, but the naked fear bled through, raw and undeniable. She looked utterly, completely terrified. And maybe, just wanted some point of contact in the face of oblivion.

I let out a shaky breath, somewhere between a sigh of exasperation and a groan of deep discomfort. Tch. Physical contact. My oldest and most persistent nemesis. Holding hands wasn't exactly my idea of a good time, especially not at the literal end of the world with someone I barely knew who seemed determined to attach herself to me. My skin crawled just thinking about the awkwardness.

"…Do I actually have a choice in this matter?" I asked dryly, hoping the familiar sarcasm masked the ridiculous level of internal discomfort and reluctance.

A tiny, faint smile touched her lips, surprisingly genuine despite everything crumbling around us. "Probably not, Senpai."

I sighed again, louder this time. Pure, theatrical resignation. The things I do for other people. Especially people who get rescued via spite-leverage and then immediately ask for emotional support. Very, very begrudgingly, feeling my own deep-seated reluctance war violently with the sheer, unfiltered terror radiating from her eyes, I reached out and took her offered hand. Her fingers were unexpectedly cold, slick with nervous sweat, and gripped mine with surprising, desperate strength, like a drowning person grabbing onto the only lifeline thrown their way.

The instant our fingers intertwined—

THREE.

The synthesized countdown slammed into my ears, loud, implacable, final. The world lurched violently beneath our feet.

TWO.

The burning ruins of the Command Room – the licking flames, the choking smoke, the twisted metal, the scattered corpses, the malevolent red eye of Chaldeas staring down at us – began to distort, blurring rapidly at the edges like watercolor paint hit with a sudden deluge of water.

ONE.

Everything dissolved. The sights, the sounds, the smells, the heat, the crushing weight of reality – wiped clean in an instant, dissolving into blinding white light and swirling, multi-colored particles. Like it had never existed. Like we had never existed there.

And then—

Nothing.

---

Hi guys. It's my first time writing a FGO crossover or anything related to the Fate franchise at all.

I have so many Ideas for this crossover and I hope it goes on for a long run, I would like it to grow into something bigger with multiple omakes as well. Theres so much untapped potential into Hachiman being a master and handling the servants. I can't wait for the lostbelts especially, but it's gonna take a while to get there so lets ride this out together.

If you want faster updates and more interaction with me or other readers I would recommend checking the story out in SpaceBattles.

Just search it up with the title and it should show up.

Thank you for reading!