Fate/Infinity

A/N: Bit late. Sorry.

"Humans are naturally social creatures, like it or not. We're hardwired to mirror the emotions of those around us—laugh when everyone is laughing, cry when others are crying. Children? They lack the kind of self-control we have as adults."

I say while pulling funny faces at the child, who is luckily already drowsy from all the tears.

"If the only source of comfort they have is screaming and crying alongside them, what do you think that teaches them?"

I shift my focus to the mom, who fidgets and rubs her arms awkwardly. "I get that you're overwhelmed, but you're the grown-up here. You've got to set the example."

Subtly slipping the earphones over the child's head, I trade seats with 'Karen' and settle back, my features relaxing in an instant.

I could have made quips, weathered the wailing out of pure spite, or chosen to help her soothe the little one to sleep.

One option would grant me the satisfaction of watching an insufferable person crumble emotionally at the cost of our collective sanity;

The other would salvage the flight for us and everyone in the cabin.

As tempting as the former is, this is a 16 plus hour flight to Berlin, and I'd rather get my sleep.

Peeling open a sandwich, I take a bite, savoring the sustenance despite my usual distaste for the often overpriced, messy packaged food.

"Uhm… Hey?"

I glance over, meeting her gaze evenly.

"We've met before, haven't we? You were a bit shorter then, but…" She trails off, uncertain.

"We have," I nod, swallowing the morsel. "You gave me quite an earful too."

"I- Uhm… I-" She stammers, fidgeting nervously with her hands. As much as I am tempted to cling to the matter out of pure spite, I understand.

There have been days like that for me as well—moments when I had lashed out, only to later realize the other person was simply having a bad day.

It can be a bitter pill to swallow, but sometimes we have to acknowledge that the ones who hurt us may have been going through their own struggles.

I soften my gaze, the edge in my voice dissipating. "It's water under the bridge, but please do try to be more mindful going forward. All of us are tired from waiting for the flight—we really need the rest."

"I know…"

She sighs, a tinge of defeat in her voice. "I just don't know how to make her behave when she's like that. I can't control her emotions…"

"That's the problem—you're trying to control, when you should be aiming to influence. If there's one thing I know, it's that children are rebellious." Anyone who says otherwise is lying to themselves. "You can belt them, scream at them, cry and beg and sure, that will deter bad behaviors for a time. But it'll ultimately result in larger problems down the line."

Leaning in slightly, I continue,

"Strict love is a hill I'll die on."

Then, after a moment of thought, I add, feeling just a tad more talkative than typical.

"Just don't confuse abusive for strict. There is a fine line, and it's pivotal you do not cross it… Ever." I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head as I lean into my leather-cladded seat. "Well, that's my good deed for the day crossed off the list."

Her eyes suddenly widen with recognition. "Wait a minute, you look familiar... Weren't you on TV not too long ago?"

"I've gotten that a lot—"

"I think I saw you shaking hands with representatives and the prime minister! And weren't you in that Rangers movie I bought for my daughter?"

Seeing my attempt to brush her off fail, I press a finger to her lips, lowering my voice. "Shhh, do you mind, lady?"

But instead of heeding my warning, she just looks even more excited. "Oh my goodness, if I'd known it was you!" Pausing, she then adds with a tinge of amusement, "You know, you're a bit grumpier in person than you are on screen."

I roll my eyes, grabbing the headphones. "I'm an actor. I act."

She nods, a sheepish smile spreading across her face. "That's... Fair enough."

Just as I'm about to slip the earphones over my head, she continues, "My daughter really likes the role you play. Cheers every time you're on screen."

I pause, brows raised. 'Huh, so that's why her tears dried up so quickly.'

"Can you get her something signed? She'd be over the moon to know it's from 'detective kid'—"

"Please, never call me that ever again…"

I cut in, a grimace sweeping across my features, as I scribble my name on the kid's baseball cap. "Here ya' go. If I find that on eBay, you're dead."

The woman just laughs, believing I am joking. I am not—I know people… Bad people.

"But all jokes aside," I say, "Do you mind if I take a moment to catch up on some sleep? I'm sort of exhausted."

"Oh, right, I'm sorry," The woman says, bowing a bit in apology as per Japanese customs. "Uhm… If my daughter—"

I raise a hand gently.

"If she acts out, I'll lend you a hand." And interject. Let's be real here—with a little one shrieking bloody murder right in my eardrums, there's no chance I'm getting any quality shut-eye regardless. "Just don't try to make a habit of foisting your parental duties on bystanders. The child' your and your hubby's responsibility."

"Well, I'm all she's got."

Oh Gods, that wasn't a prompt to open up about your tragic background, was it?

Now I feel obligated to ask…

"Is your husband not around?"

The words come out hesitantly, both hers and mine.

"He, uh, was a firefighter. Same blaze that put you in the spotlight—it took him too. We didn't even live in Fuyuki. We are from a neighboring small town and he, well, he wanted to help."

Dammit…

I pause, then offer a sympathetic look. "Hey, you know what might help take the edge off? How about a nice stiff drink—wine, maybe?"

A drink can't hurt.

Thankfully, the remainder of the journey is relatively calm.

With her 'hero' by her side, the child no longer wails, so that's a relief.

Disembarking the plane, I wave the pair one final farewell and head to the airport entrance to wait for Kiritsugu.

Yet even as I do so, my instincts are on high alert.

I've felt eyes upon me ever since that discussion with Angra Mainyu, but this particular gaze feels far more... Tangible somehow.

While the Daemon's hostility emanates a general malice aimed at everything and everyone, this sensation is far more focused.

Either I've somehow landed on some kind of governmental watch list, or a Magus—most likely from the Einzbern—has caught wind of our arrival the moment we touchdown. 'Were they waiting at the airport?"

I ponder, though quickly file that away as a rather unlikely possibility for a few reasons.

'Is Kiritsugu having the same issue?' I muse, brow furrowing slightly in concentration.

Oozing nonchalance, I prop myself against the wall, letting out a low, appreciative whistle as I clock in the Magus Killer lugging his arsenal around a column.

Rather than drawing attention, I bide my time, letting him saunter past as our gazes cross in an unspoken accord.

Any lingering grievances between us must be set aside for the moment.

"Real warm reception we're getting…"

They say Germans are a kind people, but being greeted this warmly at the airport? That's a new level of welcoming.

I trail a step behind Kiritsugu, blending discreetly into the bustling crowd, yet keeping him within my peripheral vision—just in case.

As the Magus Killer strides through the main lobby, the lingering eyes upon me seem to vanish entirely.

'Underestimated, am I?' I muse, a faint smile playing at the corners of my lips.

'Good.' Then they won't see what's coming.

Though the Einzbern wield considerable power, even they would not dare provoke an altercation in the middle of an airport. There are still higher authorities to whom even they must answer to.

Trudging through the bustling throngs, I suddenly collide with a person who even I cannot knock over. "Apology, child."

Lifting my gaze to meet the man's eyes, I'm awestruck by the sight of his snow-white hair and angular features.

My mind immediately shifts to the Einzberns, but his hair is more of a weathered grey compared to the pure white of the homunculi. If that weren't enough to clue me in, his eyes have a… Beastly quality, more animal than human.

In Nasuverse, those with inhumane traits are often not human at all, not wholly at least—a fact acknowledge by even the local scientific community.

It's rare, kind of like albinoism back on Prime Earth.

"You are—!" I blurt out, catching myself just in time as I watch the way his lips curl into a toothy grin.

"You know me, Reincarnator?" His eyes twinkle. "Or was it Transmigrator, I can't seem to differentiate the two for the life of me…"

The Apostle Ancestor prowls around me, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "I knew there was something a bit off about you, you know. Your kind aren't exactly a dime a dozen in this neck of the Kaleidoscope. But if the big shots upstairs are involved…"

He lets out a boisterous snort. "I suppose anything goes, doesn't it?"

"Zelretch…"

The Apostle bows grandly "One of Infinity, at your service!"

He declares. "But I'm afraid the matters we need to address will have to wait. You have someone you must attend to, do you not?"

"You gonna come along?"

I invite, cautious but not subservient.

In my literary explorations—the 5000 fanfics I have saved in my bookmark, ehem—I've found Zelretch to be a Loki-Archetype.

The proverbial Trickster God of the Kaleidoscope, if you will.

Remember kids, the odds may be infinitely slim, but one should never discount the possibility of a Vampiric Troll kicking down one's bedroom door and unleashing the fury of the Kaleidoscope upon one's unsuspecting ass. "I'm afraid I'll have to pass. The Magus Killer's just too serious for me."

The Apostle Ancestor has a point.

Kiritsugu Emiya's brand of humor tends to err on the drier, more understated side.

The kind that elicits a wry smile that creeps across one's face after a minute trying to decipher the joke.

I can see why these two wouldn't get along.

They probably don't in most Timelines.

"Go, those stuffy Einzbern are following closely behind him."

"Talk later?"

The Apostle inclines his head in acknowledgment. "Naturally."

Then, he steps aside, allowing you to pass. "Tread carefully with them, Leo. The Einzbern are not a forgiving lot—and their leader is even more stubborn in his way."

Brows furrowed in contemplation, I scan the crowd for the Magus Killer.

'Since when, exactly, did Zelretch decide to place me under surveillence?' The thought unsettles me.

Just how is he managing to peer through [Veiled], and to what extent?

He doesn't seem hostile, which means it can only be entertainment he's after.

When one wields the power of a Demigod or the eternal vitality of an Apostle—especially one as powerful as a Sorcerer, the need for novel entertainment rises exponentially, and such amusement can only be found in two rare places—grand upheavals and crises, or the emergence of 'heroes'…

I'm using the term very loosely here, as Nasu-Sensei intended.

Though the most pressing concern is: 'Does he know of the [ToI] as well?'

I've been painstakingly meticulous in concealing the System from prying eyes, refraining from voicing its workings aloud, and even keeping it a secret from the Golden Queen which was no small feat, not with her A-Rank [Charisma] bearing down.

The System—useful as it is—can be considered a Sorcery Trait that may earn me thr most unpleasant of fates amongst the Supernatural.

'Can the [ToI] even be passed on?'

Observing the Magus Killer flagging down a taxi, I too try to wave for one. Keyword: Try, 'cause no one seems to take the 'midget' very seriously… Neither the Einzbern nor the taxi drivers.

Seeing his about to take off, I step in front of a cab, which skids to a stop as the driver pokes his head out, screaming what I assume are the worst profanities imagineable in German.

"I need you to covertly follow that cab."

He looks ready to object, but quickly swallows whatever rebuttal he had when I produce a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills.

"Drive, and this is all yours."

"You American?"

"British." I reply, voice even.

"Hmm, you don't quite sound it… And you're using dollars, not pounds."

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I groan. "What, is my fucking accent not up to your standards? Do you want the money or not?"

He gives a noncommittal shrug. "I don't know, this doesn't exactly look like enough to cover for spy-job."

This greedy bastard.

No wonder so many pharmaceutical giants have German ties!

Instead of arguing, I try to flag another cab.

I may be in a hurry, but I ain't no fucking sucker.

"Wait, wait, wait! I'll drive you."

My expression turns sharp, a subtle smile playing on my lips as I directly halve the offer.

'Bro really thought he could finese me?'

You don't hustle the hustler… It seldom ends well, and on the rare occasion it does, rest assured that the hustler has a list of methods to make one's life Hell afterward. "Take it or leave it."

"F- Fine!" He snatches the money from my hands, his expression more wretched than a beggar's.

It must sting to watch money slip away like that, but that's on him. "Get in! Gieriger Amerikaner!"

'Well, fuck you too!'

"Remember, be covert." I remind, climbing on the cab.

Staring like a hawk as Kiritsugu leans out the cab's window, lighting a cigarette.

The gesture is a tacit signal that he will instruct the driver to proceed at a slower pace, allowing us to lure the homunculi into the open. "Why's a kid spying on people anyway? What, the CIA running out of money or something?"

I meet his gaze evenly. "Did I forget to mention the money covers: 'No question asked' fare as well?"

He scoffs, "Pissy, aren't you?"

But my eyes remain fixed on the passing street outside the window. "Call it however you want."

That's when a car suddenly drives by. 'A black van… Really?'

I note with a furrowed brow, almost snorting at the cliché.

"[Stay until I come back!]"

My eyes briefly lock with those of the homunculi, and I can't help but smile.

Without hesitation, I push the door open and leap onto their van.

The driver shrieks, slamming on the brakes as I had instructed while I fly on the roof and punch through the thin roof, purposely missing my mark. "Toodle-loo, motherfucker!"

I was hoping for something cool—a Spell, perhaps, but all I get are fists.

'Boring…' Musing in boredom, I cave in the van's roof with a swift kick and effortlessly hop inside.

The homunculi attack me from all sides, their movements almost sluggish in comparison to my own.

Even the cursed Kiritsugu surpasses them handily in speed.

In all honesty, I can't help but feel a certain fondness for the Einzbern.

They are a House of dedication and commitment, if I could persuade them to work with—or rather, ehem, for—me…

Sadly, their conflict with Kiritsugu makes that prospect rather unlikely.

Displaying just enough strength to lower their guard, I slam one of the homunculi against the door, blood splattering across my skin as half of its face is demolished upon impact to reveal the skull beneath.

Simultaneously, I kick the seat in front of me, causing the van to slam to an abrupt stop as we're thrown forward by the momentum, heads colliding with the seats / windshield in front of us.

A homunculus charges at me, slamming me through the door, but the impact's largely deflected by my [Kinetic Shield], while we all scramble to regain our footing in the dessert, coated in dry sand and dust that are simply gross to the touch. "Leonis Magnus? We've heard of you—"

The homunculi echo like a hivemind, which they probably are, given how similar they look.

Homunculi as expressive and unique as Irisviel or Illyasviel are not cheap to make…

Even Leysritt was only so human because she had an imperfect Soul implanted.

The creepiness factor asides, how do they know me?

I've been on missions before, but there are probably thousands of active assassins-for-hire out there, many of which're Enforcers I reckon. No way they'd be able to support their lifestyle and Magecraft otherwise… Furthermore, the death of a Magus or two outside the Tower isn't exactly earth-shattering news.

One only achieves legendary status like Kiritsugu when they've amassed an extensive body count—not that body count, you fucking degenerates—by killing indiscriminately.

Most Enforcer Houses tend to get paid off or warned away when a hit is issued.

But the Magus Killer?

He'll take any job he can get his hands on, and be completely uncompromising even when contacted.

Compared to his notorious exploits, I'm likely just a blip on their radar—the kid who frequented the Emiya Residence, if I'm even registered at all. "On account of your age, we'll give you a pass. Leave Germany this insta—"

A gunshot rings out, blowing the homunculus' head in a rain of blood, gore and chunks of brain.

It's like watching a watermelon being dropped from the 5th floor… Mesmerizing.

'I'm so gonna steal the Walther 2000 after he dies.'

Not like Shiro will need it.

Following his example, I too pull out Equality, making short work of the rest of the homunculi—one has his torso melted; one his legs blown right off; and the last his shoulder. He crawls towards me, mumbling a string of sheer incoherency like a glitching radio, before getting finished with a stomp to the head.

I wave for Kiritsugu to wait, then return to my cab.

The driver glares at me, spitting, "I fucking knew it! I knew you were an American!"

I open my mouth, tempted to protest, but ultimately decide against it.

We have a long day ahead, and I truly have no patience for quips at the moment.

"[Forget everything you just saw.]"

Walking away towards the cab Kiritsugu's on, gun plopped on the car window, I pull open the front seat and sit next to the driver, who looks pale white. "Was zur Hölle war das?!"

"None of your concern, now drive."

C25: Model Terminator (1)

After an hour, Kiritsugu and I get settled into our motel room. I go to fetch us each a can of soda each.

Not that either of us needs to worry about packing on the pounds—for Kiritsugu, the Curse he endures affects far more than just his Magic Circuits; it causes a gradual atrophy in all aspects of his physicality, weight included.

Grasping the doorknob, I push it open only to be greeted by the sight of the signature Contender pointed directly at my head. Pushing the nozzle away, I joke. "Take that shot, and you'll have to get your daughter on your own."

"You startled me." He admits coolly.

I roll my eyes at his nonchalant response. "Sodas?"

Retrieving the can, I toss it to him. "…Thanks."

Kiritsugu mutters, popping the lid open and taking a swig before setting the drink on the table. He then returns his attention to the drawing of the Einzbern Ancestral Castle's layout; of their Workshop—a result of at least a dozen generations of accumulation that can be traced back to the Age of Gods.

"Nice crib…" I remark, sipping on my Jolt. "They know how to be stylish, at least."

Just like the Naz— 'Wait. Too soon, Leo, way too soon.' We may revisit this joke in a decade.

Resting in the mountain range near the Rhine River, Einzbern Castle spans an impressive 34,000 square meters, the perfect location to establish a Workshop.

Though I suppose I have little reasons to be envious.

My acquisition of Castle is nearly complete—it just needs some final touches.

While most like to wander, we all need a sanctuary to return to and rest every now and then.

I turn my gaze to Kiritsugu. "You still haven't briefed me on their defenses, by the way."

He nods.

"The first layer is the most basic: A [Recognition] enchantment and an illusion barrier that twists light to render their workshop invisible to anyone not keyed into the bounded field." Very common enchantments that most Magi employ—it just depends on the specifics of the implementation.

Kiritsugu pauses, taking another sip of his soda. "The second layer consists of the walnut trees surrounding the castle. Each one is planted directly atop a leyline, and when imbued with Mana, they produce an alchemical mist that dilutes the senses of anyone who inhales it…"

I resist the temptation to make any quips,

It is beneath me…

But, "They really gassing up the place, eh?" Forgive me for I've sinned!

I chuckle, watching Kiritsugu's lips curl ever-so-slightly up in the faintest smirk.

"You know you can laugh, right?" I prod gently, my tone wretched.

Kiritsugu stays silent throughout the exchange, but the temptation is clearly written across his features.

"Aw, come on," I cajole, "You know you want to. Do it—let it out, good buddy good pal!"

Finally, Kiritsugu snorts, the sound escaping in a wheeze despite his best efforts.

"There it is." I say triumphantly, while the Magus Killer sighs, massaging his eyelids in a motion that reeks of weariness. "Why are you like this?"

He mutters, finally willing to say something other than the Einzbern.

"What?" I retort. "Don't think I didn't catch you cracking up a smile there."

"The third layer," Deflecting, the Magus Killer traces his finger on the map. "Are the statues which surround their castle—golems. I've tried [Structural Grasp] on them, and they are rather basic. The golems has abilities that falls into an Affinity each—Water; Fire; Earth; Air.

All of them come in pair, and are situated around different entry points of their Workshop to deter outsiders."

Pretty standard thus far…

I'm about to sit on the bed when I catch the look of pure disgust and loathing on Kiritsugu's face. But he's not glaring at me—his gaze instead fixed on the mattress.

Quickly, I enhance my vision using [Reinforcement], and what I see makes me cringe and backpedal hastily. There's really no need to mention it—we both know exactly what those stains are.

"It's fucking everywhere," I mutter, wrinkling my nose. "Gross."

We really should have splurged on a nicer motel, but Kiritsugu's reasoning was that a sketchy motel would make it more difficult for the Einzbern to track us down. It's sound logic, but at what cost to our sanity and hygiene?

"Anyway,"

I begin, clearing my throat and trying to steer the conversation back on track, "So about their security measures… I'm guessing 4th is where they really start to ramp up their defenses?"

Kiritsugu nods, his brow furrowed as he continues his explanation of the castle's defenses.

"The other layers are external—the 4th and 5th are inside. I believe there's a 6th that only covers the basement, but I've never been down there before…" His expression grows troubled as he mentions the basement. "That's where that old thing does his research and experiments. I cannot imagine it being any less than the previous layers."

Crossing his arms, Kiritsugu tries to take a seat when he suddenly remembers what's on the blanket.

He looks up at me, a worried look on his face. "Kiritsugu, I think we should change location…"

'Cause while I'm not sure if my room's in the same state, I know for a fact someone must've filmed a porno in his very recently. "This place ain't fit for people."

"You're usually such a miser, what's changed?" He asks, cocking his head curiously.

I shrug, physically cringing. "Is 'I don't want to sleep on other people's dry bodily fluids' a good enough reason?"

Kiritsugu considers this. "We could ask the owner to do something about it…"

I shake my head. "You know they won't."

This motel we're staying in is the kind you would expect to see featured in true crime documentaries about serial killers. Unless a corpse is discovered under the bed, they won't bother changing the bedding, and honestly? I doubt that would make much difference. When I said 'It's everywhere', I really did mean it's fucking everywhere…

And we cannot very well remain on our feet the entire time. "I will think about it, now we should focus."

"Rogers that. Now, about— Why do I smell sulfur—?"

*BOOM!!!

— [Infinity] —

Stepping into the motel, the homunculus turns robotically, its monotonous glare sweeping the disgustingly minimal structure before it—a worthless construction, slapped together by those far inferior to its creator.

Its eyes lock onto the snoring, unkempt man in his 60s behind the front desk.

Approaching, it taps on the hard surface to rouse the slob of a creature.

"I-Urgh, sorry, but we've run out of rooms! Come back later."

The man sputters groggily, his protruding belly spilling on his lap, shaking vigorously with his motions as he rubs his eyes.

The homunculus waves dismissively at him, undeterred.

Though it may not be the most exceptional of its siblings, a normal human is less than an infant to it—especially one who has so clearly let himself go in his old age.

Silently, it pushes a picture before the man, its crimson glare burning holes in his forehead. "Where?"

"Up your fucking ass."

The lowly creature exclaims, hand running across his bald head—a habit left from days long past, most likely.

"I already told you, we packed. Get fucking lost or do I have to make you?!"

The man rises to his feet, and despite his unkempt appearance, it's clear he has not forsaken his physical discipline entirely. The sheer diameter of his bicep alone is the size of the homunculus' head, yet as intimidating as this is for the average Jane and Joe, it is of little effect.

The homunculus fixes the man with a sharp, frigid stare.

"You're just a human…"

Remarking coldly, its fingers clamp onto the man's bicep and pinching with such force that the muscle contorts in shape. "A- Argh!"

"Where?" The Einzbern demands again, pushing the picture in the man's face.

"F- Fuck you!"

Its sharp-pointed nails dig mercilessly into the man's flesh, eliciting a piercing wail of agony from the despicable wretch—a bloated lump of humanity with a vile tongue to boot.

With lightning speed and brutal efficiency, it yanks a tangle of nerves and sinews free, one hand deftly covering the man's gaping mouth to suppress the tormented and panicking cries just as they threaten to spill. "Where?"

"Room 301, FUCK!" His muffled scream rings out, and the homunculus nods. "Thank you for your service."

Again and again, the man wails on the homunculus with increasingly frantic energy. It cannot feel true joy, its OS far too primitive to comprehend any complex emotion, but there is a very distinct sense of satisfaction running through its software. "Spare key, where do you keep it?"

"Room 301 is- it's in the locker!"

"The rooms next to it."

The homunculus clarifies, increasing the strength of his pinch just enough to cause the man to double over.

"In the fucking lockers next to room 301! Where do you think, you fucking muppet?!"

"You're not very nice…"

The man groans. "I should be telling you that, you albino motherfuck—"

With the slightest twitch of his hand, the foul-mouthed human's neck twists.

He's not dead.

By the homunculus' estimation, he'll die in 34 minutes if not hospitalized, and even if he were, he'd spend the remaining days of his life wheelchair-bound, unable to move or speak. The second option is tempting, but it has been told not to leave any loose ends.

"Shame…" It would much prefer if he lived.

As one of the newer, experimental combat models, it does not have many confidants in Castle Einzbern.

Though incomplete, the disfigured, fragmented Soul it possesses—crafted from half-done clumps of Ether and an artificial intelligence formed from the consciousness of its many predecessors—craves for more. "I want you to know I do like you… Foul as you are, you're still the first human I've talked to—you're special."

It runs its fingers down the man's trembling face-fat. "But order's order, and I must accomplish my mission if I don't want to be scrapped. You understand, right?"

Its innocent, almost child-like gaze meets with bulging eyes, before it rises to its full height, rests a boot on the man's skull, and with just a tiny increase in pressure, his skull caves in, bone shrapnel digging into loose flesh.

Staring at the corpse, the homunculus shrugs, then goes to retrieve the spare key.

Silent as a cat, it 'floats' down the hall, nose twitching as it takes in the scents of sweat and bodily fluids mixed in an unholy stench that is almost too much, even for a homunculus of its quality. "301… 301…"

The doll shuffles forward, its unearthly murmurs fading as it comes upon a room with the plaque, clinging for dear life to the door.

Turning its attention to the numbered portal, it pushes onwards, already aware of the inhabitants within.

Humans are the least of its concerns at present.

A firm knock echoes. "Room service."

A muffled voice snaps back, "Come back later!"

The knock repeats, steady and insistent. "Room service."

"I said later!!!"

"Room service."

Hurried footsteps approaches the thin barrier, and the door flings open, revealing an irate man, clad only in a towel, face flushed with anger. In his hand, a wallet while a woman, equally unclothed, peeks from beneath the sheets.

"Here's a 50," The man growls, thrusting the bill forward. "Just get the fuck away."

It looks at the worthless paper offered, hand silently reaching for the wallet in his hand.

[Reinforcement] envelops the whole of the wallet in a cold glow, causing the man's eyes to widen.

He lifts his head, only then discovering something so utterly sinister in the doll. "Wha— Who are—?"

With a jerk of its hand, the homunculus throws the reinforced wallet through the woman's head.

She collapses instantly, blood and brain spilling on the ground to stain the already dirty floor, while the man—rendered speechless at the horrific crime that just took place before him—hurriedly backpedals, his back pressed against the wall in an attempt to make himself look smaller.

The man's body bristles with the urge to take that swing, his instincts demanding retaliation.

Yet, his rational faculties swiftly intervene, a cold calculus overriding his baser impulses. The odds of emerging victorious against such a monster are infinitesimal—a futile endeavor that would only hasten his own demise.

He has only two choices—resign himself to what's likely to be a grisly fate or make a desperate bid for the exit, even if it means ditching his pride, a last-ditch gamble for survival.

But, before he can decide, the homunculus has stepped in, face blank as he crushes the man's neck, hushing silently.

Closing the door, it looks at the key it had earlier grabbed and pushes the body off the bed with a wet thud.

The Magus Killer's just on the other side of the wall.

Putting its ear against the yellowing, peeling paper, it carefully listens in to their conversation.

It has been told its target brought with him a new protégé, but its main objective is still Kiritsugu Emiya. Drawing up on its memory bank, the homunculus smiles. According to the information it has on him, the Magus Killer is a big fan of explosion…

It just so happens one of the Spells installed in its OS is [Explodia Alchemica], a relatively simple yet effective Spell developed by the Lord Einzbern the First.

The process is as simple as can be, one merely needs to transform atoms to different structure.

That is what seperates [Alteration] from [Alchemy]—the first can only change an object's shape, while alters its molecular makeup.

It is Art—it is a Discipline to transform different states of matter… It is a line of codes integrated in his system. The act comes even more natural than breathing, as if he has done it since he was in the artificial incubator.

'Sulfur, charcoal and saltpeter…'

When these three elements are combined and exposed to ample heat, the result is a rapid exothermic reaction that generates gas and culminates in an explosion.

The next step involves the most basic application of [Telekinesis]—using it to increase the pressure of the explosion, rendering it far more catastrophic due to the frenzied, unstable state of the molecules under intense compression. "Perfect."

Pressing the Spell against the wall, the homunculus snapped his fingers, unleashing a swirling torrent of fire—a hellish inferno that consumes the motel in an instant.

[Infinity] —

The explosion directly drains approximately 25% of my Mana reserves to block. Fortunately, I find myself situated within the path of the flames, shielding the Magus Killer from the licking fire.

While the man appears somewhat singed, [Reinforcement] is a fundamental action ingrained in most Magi, allowing him to evade serious injury. However, odds are he won't be contributing much to this battle. 'At least I can still use my Mystic Code.'

With the coming of the Age of Man, most have developed more discreet forms—sometimes as mundane as a pair of gloves or a kitchen knife even. Senza Esitazione is quite the outlier.

Every medieval weapon is, in truth.

The continued use of these Mystic Codes hinges solely on their ancient origins and how their Mysteries have grown and developed over the centuries.

In a more… Public setting, my primary weapon would have been rendered impractical, and my firearms equally useless for much the same reason. "Leonis Magnus?"

I glare at the homunculus, sweeping the fire away with a single swing of my spear.

"Einzbern, I'm guessing?"

"My main objective is the Magus Killer… If you value your life, I suggest you run. You may live for a few more minutes."

The doll cracks his neck.

"Days, if you're lucky, but I always accomplish my mission."

I grin toothily, positioning myself in front of the coughing Magus Killer.

Once upon a time, I'm sure he'd have been able to shrug off the injuries, but he's already enduring agony just trying to stay alive. Each use of Magecraft is shortening his lifespan by a few hours. The more complex and demanding Spells even steal away weeks, if not months from the man.

This is exactly why I didn't want him along for the ride… Too much risk involved.

"Better change your catchphrase to 'I accomplish my mission most of the time', 'cause you are about to fail."

Leo uses [Provocation]! "Then prepare to die."

It's mildly effective.

The homunculus lunges at me, even faster than Kirei.

Although the homunculus can match my Stats through the use of [Reinforcement], I am still able to maintain a advantage when my own is actively engaged.

Adrenaline surging through my veins, infusing my musculature with the strength to rival even mighty mythical beasts, I charge forth to meet my opponent. The thrust is met with a bony blade that springs forth from the homunculus' forearm, sending a shower of sparks all while [Extended Thrust] slips past the homunculus' defense.

[Tyche's Favor] flares to life, though it is not [Ares' Bloodletting] that comes to my aid, but rather the whispers of [Eris' Discordance].

I suppress a shudder as voices bombard me, sinister voies which command me to do the unspeakables.

Observing the homunculus as it shakes its head, visibly perplexed, I stay my hands. "What did you say?" It questions.

"I, uhm, I did not?"

I stammer, Senza Esitazione gripped tightly in my fingers.

"You did! Someone is—!"

The homunculus suddenly grasps its head, nails digging into its scalp as it doubles over. "What sorcery have you wrought?!" It cries out, its emotions no longer… Muted as they were before.

"Something's messing with my—"

It bites back a groan, rolling around on the ground and screeching bloody murder.

I do not know what has afflicted the homunculus, I only recognize the intensity of its distress.

"You doin' good, bro?"

"I- I'm not—I can't disobey my creator, I cannot! Stay back!" The homunculus cries out, curling in on itself in a fetal position in search of some semblance of security. Taking advantage of its vulnerable state, I swiftly drive my spear into its chest, carving a deep gash, before twisting it for good measure.

With its internal organs reduced to minced meat, I seize the disoriented Magus Killer and lightly slaps his face. "Kiritsugu, you alive?"

I give his back a gentle tap, drawing a pained groan from the charred Magus Killer.

'Smells like burnt pork.' The angry, mottled burns of the second-degree scar his face, while his arms bear the more severe, angry marks of third-degree burns. It's an ugly sight, certainly, but he'll live… Probably.

"We've been had."

"M- My guns!"

I glance at the duffle bag beside him and scoop it up, as more and more people begin to converge on the scene—some our fellow occupants, a few bystanders drawn by the commotion and spectacle, even a few Good Samaritans hoping to lend a hand.

Thankfully, there's a forest behind the motel, and—'Oh, nice… A forest. Of course there is.'

I suppress a groan.

No, best not to tempt fate.

Casting one last glance at the flames, momentarily transported back to that fateful night in Fuyuki, I quickly push those useless thoughts aside—this is not my doing, it is not my burden to bear.

Leave it to the firefighters.

I pivot on my heel, making a swift exit into the forest, bursting through the blaze as the building starts to crumble around us.

If I get caught carrying all these firearms, the Einzbern will be the least of my problems.

Becoming fugitives on the run is not on my agenda for today.

Well, at least now I know for certain just how deep the Einzbern—Jubstacheit's hatred for Kiritsugu is.

I don't blame the guy, but at least give us a grace period to settle in first.

"Oh, fuck…" I forgot my debit card.

Muttering a hasty apology to whomever I may encounter next—for they are soon to be down a wallet and its contents—I tighten my grip on the Magus Killer, who nearly slipped from my grasp.

"I'll be lucky to survive the rest of this bumpy ride." He croaks.

"Oh, by all means, do enlighten me on how I might improve."

Coughing, Kiritsugu lets out a mirthless laugh. Unlike Shiro, he does not truly laugh or grin—the closest thing to joy I've seen upon his face is this defeated, weary smile that only serves to vex me further.

Clearly, he's in a far worse shape than I had realized.

"Hang on in there."

"What do you think I'm doing?"

I was just joking at first, but now I'm 100% certain: Kiritsugu won't live for long without medical intervention.

— [Infinity] —

As the sun crests the horizon and the flames begin to subside, the weary firefighters pick their way through the charred remains, grimacing at the devastating loss of life and greenery that will scar this land for years to come.

One shakes his head solemnly.

"I smell sulfur… You catch that too?"

John Arston nods, his brow furrowed. "I did. This wasn't an accident—some sick bastard…"

Their exchange is interrupted by a pained wheeze nearby.

Exchanging a look, the two men rush towards the sound, ready to render aid, never realizing today is going to be their last.

Several screams; bloody wet squelchs later, a figure emerges from the wreckage.

Lean frame clad in a pristine white suit, snow-white hair and piercing crimson eyes marking his inhuman nature, the homunculus groans and stretched.

Though his fine attire had been reduced to charred rags, his flawless skin's unscathed.

Yet the most unsettling aspect is the deranged glint in his eyes—a departure from the cold rationality that typically defines these artificial lifeforms—and elongated fangs jutting out of his gums.

With a sudden, wild laugh, the creature reaches towards the sky, as if basking in the sunlight for the first time.

He is a machine no longer.

Fist clenched around the nameplate, he smiles. "John Arston, John Arston…"

Repeating to taste the name on his tongue, the homunculus laughs while [Bio-Conversion] overclocks repairing his loss mass using the firefighters'.

"From now on, I am John Arston."

If you want to support me and read unreleased chapters, here you go, there are over a dozen Chaps there. Can't miss it.

P a treon: Regularr

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