In their eyes, I could see it—the flicker of hope. A fragile, desperate wish that their son might have the life they never could. A life without war, without endless sorrow. For all their strength, for all the blood they'd spilled, both Kiritsugu and Artoria were forged in tragedy.
And they knew it.
They had never been granted peace. Never allowed to rest. And though they rarely spoke it aloud, the silent truth lingered between them: they didn't want that kind of life for Shirou.
But they had seen what was to come.
They had encountered others like me before. Outsiders. Timewalkers. Interference.
They had witnessed futures where Shirou became more than just a boy with a dream—futures where he was twisted into something far more tragic. A blade that cut down everything, even himself.
As I sat before them, waiting for the next question—the inevitable challenge to my claim—my thoughts drifted to the moment I first saw Artoria again. That impossible instant when myth stepped into reality.
And with it came the weight of truth.
Then, at last, her voice broke the silence. Regal, unwavering. The voice of a king.
"Explain to us," Artoria said, her tone like cold steel. "How can you hope to change something that must happen? You know as well as we do—if you alter Shirou's path too greatly, this timeline will collapse. It will become a singularity."
She wasn't angry. Not yet. But she was on the edge of it. Not because I posed a threat… but because I offered a temptation she couldn't afford to believe in.
And if I failed to convince them here and now—if I faltered for even a moment—then I wouldn't walk out of this room alive.
I took a slow breath and began to speak, choosing my words carefully.
"There's something you need to understand first—something foundational," I said, my voice steady. "This world… this version of your universe… it's not just another timeline. If reality is a great tree, then this world is the trunk—the main branch from which all others grow."
The moment the words left my mouth, I felt it.
A shift in the air.
A weight pressing down on the room, like space itself had started to comprehend the magnitude of what was being spoken. Kiritsugu tensed ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing. Artoria's hand gripped the hilt of her sword, but she didn't raise it. Not yet.
They were listening.
"Alaya and Gaia," I continued, "can forcefully correct fractured timelines. Prune branches. Seal off singularities. You both know this. You've seen it happen. In some worlds, they simply cut away anomalies like you might remove rot from a limb."
I let that settle for a moment before continuing.
"But this timeline—the one we're in right now—is different. It's not just another world. It's the anchor. The base. The origin point. And because of that… even Alaya and Gaia hesitate to interfere here."
Artoria's brows furrowed. Kiritsugu said nothing, but the glint in his eyes told me he was connecting the dots.
"It's not that this world doesn't need correcting," I said. "It's that they can't correct it carelessly. This is the timeline that holds the entire multiverse together. If it fractures too much—if we change the wrong thing or too many things—"
I paused.
"—the whole tree collapses."
Silence followed. Heavy. Oppressive.
They understood now. This wasn't just about saving a boy from his fate. It was about walking a razor's edge—correcting a life without unraveling the universe.
"And your son," I said, locking eyes with them both, "is one of the most integral parts of the universe. Every other version of Shirou Emiya—across the multiverse—doesn't necessarily become a Counter Guardian."
I paused, letting the weight of my next words sink in.
"But this one must. Because he is the original. The foundation."
A faint tremor passed through the air, almost like the world itself held its breath.
"If he doesn't become the Counter Guardian… Alaya loses her strongest Heroic Spirit. Perhaps the strongest that has ever existed."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Their eyes, once burning with suspicion, now flickered with something else—confusion. Doubt. Fear.
Kiritsugu narrowed his gaze at me, the gears in his mind already turning. Then he stepped forward slightly, gesturing with his hand.
"Explain," he said. "What do you mean by the strongest Heroic Spirit? From everything I've learned, even from others like you, Shirou only had the potential. But he never became anything close to the strongest."
I nodded slowly.
"That's because most people only see his surface. They see the boy, the survivor, the fool chasing an impossible ideal. But none of them understand his true ability. His origin. His reality."
I looked them both in the eyes, voice quiet but unwavering.
"Do either of you truly know… what Shirou Emiya's abilities really are?"
Artoria crossed her arms, her gaze never leaving mine. Her voice, calm and measured, carried the weight of a knight who had lived and died for her ideals.
"What I know," she began, "is that Shirou possesses a single true ability—Projection Magecraft. A form of sorcery that allows him to replicate any weapon, so long as he understands its structure and purpose."
She paused, eyes narrowing slightly as she continued.
"He can recreate Noble Phantasms… even Divine Constructs, to an extent. But he's limited. The replicas he creates are always inferior to the originals because he cannot fully comprehend or process the mysteries that formed them."
Her tone shifted, becoming more analytical—almost sorrowful.
"Even with his ability to mimic the original wielder's fighting style, which in itself is rare and dangerous, his strength still has boundaries. That's why, despite everything, he would only qualify as a mid-tier Heroic Spirit at best—useful, unique, but not exceptional."
She looked away for a moment, as if weighing the facts in her mind.
"His Reality Marble, Unlimited Blade Works, is impressive. It gives him a battlefield advantage unlike any other, allowing him to summon a literal armory into existence. But that alone doesn't make him the strongest."
Her eyes returned to mine—sharp, honest, and firm.
"His body simply isn't built to endure the weight of being the strongest Heroic Spirit. He lacks the divine blood, the monstrous lineage, the ancient blessing. In the end, he's just… a boy. A boy with a dream too big for the world to carry."
"You're right," I said calmly, locking eyes with Artoria. "If you judge Shirou's abilities at face value, then yes—he's limited. But you're forgetting one crucial detail…"
I paused, letting the weight of my next words hang in the air.
"Alaya."
At the mention of the name, I saw it—the brief flicker in their eyes. Recognition. Calculation. Possibility.
"She removed his greatest weakness," I continued. "The one thing that kept him from ever standing among the strongest—his lack of power. His constructs failed because he couldn't supply them. His body faltered because it wasn't built to endure divine strain. His knowledge was limited to what he could understand as a human mage."
"But Alaya changed that."
I watched them both now, closely. Their minds were turning, considering the implications. If even one of Shirou's fundamental flaws could be erased by the will of humanity itself… what then?
Kiritsugu, ever the realist, broke the silence. His tone was sharp and grounded.
"If that's true… then only Alaya could have done it," he said. "Not you. Not the system you claim to possess. No one else can rewrite those limitations. That kind of intervention is divine—and deadly."
He was stating a fact, not arguing. For him, it was simple logic. Unbendable truth.
Artoria stepped forward, her voice cutting through the quiet like a sword drawn in court.
"Even if your claims are true—even if Alaya removed his limitations—it's still not enough to convince me," she said. "There's another problem."
Her expression was solemn, as though she were reciting a fate already written.
"After a certain point, his body and magical circuits will stop growing. That's a fact of his era, of his origin. Your 'system' may help him improve temporarily, but if it can't break the chains placed on him since birth… then it won't matter."
She looked directly at me, gaze steady and unwavering.
"Because even a sharpened blade will dull if it's forged in flawed steel."
"What do you mean my system can't break the chains placed on him just because he was born in this era?" I asked, my brow furrowed, a flicker of uncertainty crossing my mind. I hadn't considered that before. Not once.
Artoria turned to face me fully, her gaze unwavering, filled with the weight of centuries. Her voice, when she spoke, was firm and regal.
"Have you ever stopped to ask yourself," she said, "why Alaya and Gaia don't immediately eliminate people like you the moment you step into this world?"
Her words hit me like a blow. I opened my mouth but found no answer. It was a question I had never dared to ask myself, too blinded by my mission… or perhaps too confident in my existence.
Artoria continued, her tone cutting through my silence like Excalibur through fog. "You and others like you—beings who arrive in this world with powers that should not exist—pose a direct threat to the foundation of this world. And yet, you're allowed to walk freely. That isn't kindness. It's containment."
A chill ran down my spine.
"I once asked Merlin," Artoria said softly, her eyes distant, "why such intruders weren't struck down immediately. He told me the truth."
She paused. Her next words carried the weight of divine revelation.
"You're cheat codes. You weren't made by this world, and that makes you unpredictable—dangerous. But you're also bound by something older than even the Counter Force. Alaya and Gaia can't just erase you outright, because doing so could destabilize the entire structure of reality. So instead, they restrict you. Quietly. Invisibly. They dull your edge before you can cut too deep."
I sat there, stunned, her words echoing in my mind. I had never felt any restriction—never sensed anything holding me back. But now… it all started to make sense.
"If people like you had truly arrived here before," Artoria went on, "with gifts from beyond this world, why haven't they conquered everything? Why haven't they shattered the throne of heroes, rewritten the Age of Man, or crushed the Counter Force?"
She stepped closer, her presence overwhelming.
"Because they were allowed to exist… until they crossed a line."
And then I understood.
The system I relied on, the powers I had taken for granted—they weren't entirely mine. They had been permitted. And the moment I posed too great a threat, Alaya and Gaia wouldn't hesitate to act—not out of fear or hate, but out of necessity.
It wasn't mercy.
It was management.
And if I misstepped…
I would be erased.
"And if what you've told me is true," Artoria said at last, her voice quiet, almost broken, "then Shirou must become a Counter Guardian. It is a fixed point in history… one that cannot be changed. Any attempt to alter it would cause the multiverse to collapse upon itself."
Her words hung heavy in the air. She looked down, defeated, the weight of inevitability pressing down on her. Her son's tragic fate—a future carved in stone—offered no salvation. When I turned my gaze to Kiritsugu, he wore the same expression. Hollow. Resigned.
But I wasn't finished.
"You've forgotten one thing," I said gently, yet firmly. "Just because something must happen, doesn't mean it has to happen exactly as it did before."
Artoria looked up at me, confused. I gestured toward her.
"Look at yourself," I said. "You're still here, in this world. And by all accounts, you shouldn't be. You were never meant to exist during Shirou's childhood—let alone be a part of it."
She frowned slightly, uncertain where I was going.
"The only fixed point," I continued, "was that you and Shirou would meet. But how you meet? When you meet? That was never written in absolute terms. The original fate dictated the outcome, but not the path taken to get there."
There was a slight smirk on my lips as I leaned forward, voice full of conviction.
"He has to become a Counter Guardian. Yes. That much we can't change. But how he becomes one? That's still within our control."
They both looked at me now, truly listening.
"We can't save him from the world he was meant to enter… but we can prepare him. We can make sure he doesn't walk into that destiny broken, empty, and alone. We can ensure that when the time comes, he enters that world stronger, more human… and less of a sacrifice."
I let those final words hang in the air.
Artoria and Kiritsugu exchanged a glance—uncertainty in their eyes, yes, but also something else.
Hope.
"How do you plan to change the terms of him becoming a Counter Guardian?" Kiritsugu asked, his voice low and serious.
"Simple," I replied, meeting his gaze with conviction. "The original pact Shirou made with Alaya was born out of desperation—he was too weak to save anyone. But if we fix that weakness, then Alaya won't be able to take advantage of him the same way."
Artoria let out a quiet sigh, her expression shifting into one of disappointment. "Didn't I just tell you? Your system cannot break the chains that were placed on him simply because he was born in this era."
"I know," I responded calmly, not flinching at her skepticism. "My system cannot break those chains… but this world has something—someone—who can. A medicine not of science, but of mystery. A remedy that can forge him into a weapon worthy of Alaya's notice… but not its control."
Artoria's eyes narrowed with curiosity, uncertainty flickering within them.
"You just need to call him here," I continued. "As much as he might deny it, and as much as he tries to stay distant, you're the closest thing he has to family. He'll help you."
There was silence for a moment. Then, finally, Artoria asked with furrowed brows, "Who are you talking about?"
To answer her, I simply smiled and said one name:
"Merlin."