Chapter Text
When they stood over me, I don't think my mind came up with any proper words. I was at a loss.
They looked too fragile and delicate to be a swordsman. If they were female, they would barely qualify. If they were male, then any middling Demon could have probably snapped them like a twig.
A pale blue haori from a bygone era wrapped around a white kimono. Black hakama hid legs that were probably much too thin to be fighting in a battlefield this ruthless.
Yet their light blonde hair, coupled together with pale, nearly ghostly skin, was stained with the blood of a demon. And their scent—it was sweet and light, like a falling sakura petal.
They were a snow camellia, dipped in crimson red.
Whether I believed it or not at that moment, they were a warrior worth way more than myself at the time.
"Excuse my delay. That beast was tougher than I predicted."
The voice was a level higher than mine, yet I was still unable to make out if they were a man or a woman. The outfit they were wearing didn't sway my opinion one way or another, either.
Plus, they said something interesting just now.
Beast?
Why would a swordsman in this era refer to Demons as "beasts"?
I subconsciously threw away the question an instant later. Their icy gaze peered into mine, reading my intentions as my scrambling, exhausted brain tried to eke out any response.
"You're my Master, right?" they said.
A beat passed as I blinked in bewilderment. That was the first time I've ever been called that before.
The swordmaster extended their thin hand.
And just like that, the frost melted from their cool expression as they helped me to my feet.
Although—
"Agh—"
The injuries I sustained from the battle on the train still made me lightheaded. Yet, their hand wrapped around my body, catching me with a natural grace and ease that seemed impossible for their size.
"Easy there, Master. Eyes up at me."
They placed me at about arm's reach, holding me steady. At this distance, I could get a better read on their complexion.
Pale, yet naturally beautiful. A blossom with a blade, delicate with the innocent, yet deadly to whom they drew their sword.
That is what I gathered from them in those fleeting moments.
And then, upon their lips, a gentle smile curled at me.
"It's nice to finally meet you, Master. What is your name?"
"Kamado Tanjiro. It's a…pleasure…"
I winced and held my midsection. That pain, however, was secondary to the warmth they gave me; as well as the reservations I held about being called that.
"If there's anyone who deserves to be called Master, though," I coughed into my hand, catching my breath, "it's Rengoku-san or yourself, not me."
This time, it was their turn to blink in confusion. Their gaze softening further, they patted my head—despite being a baker's dozen centimeters shorter.
"Silly. I'm not referring to mastery of the sword. I'm referring to our contract. You called out to me. And so I, a Servant, have responded to your summons."
I tilted my head. They were speaking words I knew, but didn't understand.
"Let me put this in a better way…got it."
They gripped the hilt of their katana. It was not a show of force, but rather of will.
"My body shall serve under you, and your fate shall be my sword. I will fight alongside you until my body collapses. That is my oath as 'Saber'."
Their determination washed over me like a tsunami. Our eyes met properly, earnestly, truthfully, for the first time in our exchange.
Time seemed to have stopped. The hundreds of injured people behind us, my friends, my mentor, none of that mattered for these brief fleeting seconds.
Because, despite this moment only having a heartbeat of brevity…
…I was sure I would remember it vividly, even if I fell into hell.
Gripping her pendant tightly, a girl in flowing crimson stepped onto the train car. Its chained necklace wrapped around her fingers as she palmed the expensive ruby, both hiding it from view and using it as a sort of self-comfort. It had been a while since she had been this far from home.
But she had to. She couldn't summon the Servant she wanted without a proper catalyst, after all. Sitting in her handbag was the catalyst in question: an authentic crest from the Minamoto clan. She had procured it from a less-than formal source in Tokyo, but trusted their authenticity.
It's not very specific, but it's good enough.
There were plenty of Samurai from the Genpei War, so she was bound to get one that could win the War for her.
For now, though, the next step was to take a seat and wait. The ride back to Kamakura would take roughly an hour, which was more than enough time to get some shut-eye. Sleep was something a magus did not get enough of.
So tired…
She rubbed her eyes and sat in her assigned seat, smoothing out her kimono and haori before fully settling down.
The people around her were sparse and relatively unremarkable. Even when tired, she had to stay alert. Someone in her profession was always a target, no matter where they were. Luckily, not a single soul around her gave off any strange presence.
"Umai!"
Well, except one.
"Umai! Umai! Umai! Umai!"
She opened one eye. One row ahead and to her left was a man with foreign-colored hair; though his accent was most definitely native. He was eating from a bento, and every time he took a bite—
"Umai!"
—he would express his gratitude. Repeatedly.
"Umai! Umai! Umai!"
Could he just—?
"Umai!"
I guess not.
The girl sighed to herself. Despite his large stature and assertive voice, he gave off no mana signature. Just an ordinary guy with an eccentric way of appreciating dinner.
I would like some quiet, though. And I think everyone else would like it, too.
She did what it seemed like no one else in the coach wanted to do. Getting to her feet, she took a step or two forward and tapped his shoulder.
"Sir, it is quite late. Some of us in the coach would like to rest, so it would be great if you could enjoy your…"
Her eyes gazed over to the seat next to him, which was not occupied by a person, but rather enough empty bento boxes to fill the volume of one.
"…meals in silence, please?"
The man promptly set down his chopsticks and met her eyes. Immediately, an expression that she could only really quantify as fiery pierced into her soft onyx brown irises.
He was probably about her own age, but physically much more imposing than herself. His gakuran uniform was typical, though his hair and eye color definitely were not. Blonde with red tips. That's new.
She didn't even want to begin with the cape. Not a haori, a cape.
"Ah. Apologies!" he exclaimed, maybe several decibels too loudly, "this meal that the train offers is just simply delicious, though! Have you tried one?"
"With all due respect, sir, you probably ate the entire train car's worth of food. I'm not even sure if there's enough for us."
"Ah. It was first come, first served, so that is unfortunate."
She wanted to follow-up with 'How did you even manage to eat all of that?', but her better judgment convinced her that prodding into a stranger's life was not the best use of her time. Napping, however, would be.
She looked at his bento. About half finished, and an exasperated female attendant seemed to be coming over with another one. However, the man seemed to wave her off, acknowledging the concern that she had brought up to him.
"I will finish the rest of this meal in silence, then!"
"Too loud."
"Starting now."
He said the last sentence with a, finally, normal volume that fit the rest of the coach. After giving her a smile that she couldn't tell was genuine or arrogant, she returned to her seat.
Ultimately, she came to one conclusion about him.
Definitely the weirdest thing all week. Even weirder than the dealer that I met to get this.
She palmed her handbag closer to herself. What was inside was precious cargo until she returned to her estate in Kamakura.
The interaction with that man filled her with some energy, much to her chagrin, so she opted to just stare out the window as she felt the train begin to move. Eventually, watching the trees and mountains pass by would heavy her eyes again.
Through the semi-reflection in the glass, she also passively watched as a handful of more people walked past her and to her seat.
Then she jolted. Just a tad.
Is that a boar head!?
She jerked her head around, and caught her voice before she could draw attention.
Sauntering by her was a young man, shirtless, muscled…with a boar head covering his own.
I take it back. THIS is the weirdest thing I have witnessed this week. Possibly month.
She watched as they, and two of what she could only assume to either be his bodyguards or friends stepped past her and tapped the fiery man from before on the shoulder.
"Rengoku-san?" the boy in the checkered haori said, "it's me, Kamado Tanjiro."
"Umai."
The boy chuckled lightly, probably out of nervousness or confusion. "Ah, I see. Yes, the bento does look good."
Of course they know him, she thought. That's just perfect.
Silently, she wished she had picked a different train car.
She smoothed her clothes again, making sure she still looked proper in the reflection of the glass. After all, a Tohsaka had to be refined at all times.
She overheard their conversations, but only partially. With the War happening soon, most of her mental effort was trying to deduce her next steps after the summoning was completed. Plus, much of what they were saying made no sense to her.
Breathing Styles? Hinokami…what-ura?
You know what? It is of no concern.
She leaned her head against the glass. It really was none of her business.
Even though her intention was to get rest, she hadn't really come close to falling asleep; her mind was too flooded with thoughts of what was to come.
She knew how violent the Second War was. Her grandfather suffered a brutal death at the hands of a Servant. She couldn't let that be her own fate, but as she stared at the necklaced pendant laced between her fingers, she got steadily more unsure.
She did her homework. She knew how a Holy Grail War worked, and the steps the Master and Servant have to take to win. Taking those steps, though—that was the real test.
I've already done the first. I got my catalyst. I need to calm down. It'll be okay.
She gripped her pendant just a little tighter, before producing a small pouch and dropping it inside. Above all else, she couldn't lose this heirloom, either. It first belonged to her great-grandfather, after all.
The magus took a small, calming breath. Kamakura, and therefore the third start of her family's legacy, was going to start as soon as this train came to a halt.
"May I…see your ticket, please?"
The raspy voice nearly jumped her out of her seat. She was so lost in thought, she totally forgot that she had to get her ticket punched.
"Right. Here you are."
She handed the conductor her golden colored ticket. A quick snip of a hole puncher, and it was done. She slipped the ticket back in her handbag, and passively watched as the conductor did the same to the rowdy, colorful haori-wearing young men ahead of her.
For some reason, it now became a lot easier to hold her eyes shut.
And before long, her restless body finally got what it needed this entire time.
When she came to, she found herself sitting by a kotatsu. An instant warmth settled over her legs as the thick blanket kept in the heat from the radiator below. Her upper body, while a bit chilled from the winter air outside, was soon going to be warmed by the steaming udon sitting in front of her.
"Yuri-chan, have a bite. Your mother made these fresh."
A masculine, yet gentle voice spoke out from her left. She almost didn't recognize that it was her father's.
"I will, Father." She spoke with a quiet reverence, like she always did with him. Every time she spoke to her father, she felt as if she was walking on eggshells. Any wrong move, and it felt like he would reprimand her.
Yet instead of a harsh gaze, his eyes were gentle, a falling leaf rather than a harsh gust of apathy.
He nodded, encouraging her. Confused, she took up her chopsticks and had a bite.
"That's good," she muttered quietly. A beat later, she realized that she had food in her mouth and immediately bowed her head after swallowing. "Ah—I'm sorry, I didn't—!"
"Relax, Sayuri. You're okay," her mother said, cool yet comforting. Her hair was neatly tied up with a gorgeous, gemstone-studded hairpin, which she recognized was to be her own when she would come of age. "I know studying can be stressful, but you don't need to be so tense. It is just us."
Sayuri's face flushed light red. Yes, but that's exactly the issue.
She looked closer at both of their faces. They were warm, smiling, and happy.
They were her parents, but not as she remembered.
Or were they?
Maybe this is how it always was.
She tried to recall back to what she was doing before.
She thought that she knew. She was somewhere, getting something.
Or, maybe not. Maybe she wasn't. Her mother said she was studying earlier, so that must be what she was doing before she sat down at the kotatsu.
"Right," she brushed her hair back behind her ear as she gently cooled down the broth with her breath, "my apologies, Mother. Let us eat."
As usual, her mother's cooking was delicious. After hours of rigorous mental work, having a home cooked meal was always a blessing. She finished the bowl first, setting the empty vessel down with a satisfied sigh.
"Thank you," Sayuri said, "the udon was amazing. Thank you for making it for us."
"Oh, what is with your extra politeness today?" her mother teased, "someone's in a real good mood, it seems. So what is it? A boy you like?"
Sayuri almost spat out the water she was halfway through drinking. "I'm—! No! Certainly not, I'm just…"
She looked at the room around them. Warmly lit and decorated, tatami mats pristine and swept to perfection, parents who were not only kind in words, but kind in support. She couldn't remember the last time they cared about her personal life like that.
Sayuri broke into a smile, one that she hadn't given in a while, "I'm just grateful. That is all."
She stepped out of the kotatsu. It was a rather chilly early spring night, but she knew it would start warming up once the sakura started blossoming in the coming weeks. "Well, I suppose it is time to return to studying, so—"
"Hm? What do you mean?" her father chimed in, "the fireworks are starting soon. After we finish, we're going to go watch them go off in the yard. Are you not coming, Yuri-chan?"
She scratched the side of her head. How could she have forgotten that?
"Apologies. Yes, I will be there."
"Good," her mother took a sip of tea, "your grandfather will be there as well, so be sure to be on your best behavior."
A beat of silence passed.
"Huh?" Sayuri's mouth was slightly agape in shock. "Grandfather…on your side, or Father's?"
Her mother blinked as if she asked a silly question. "Sayuri, my father lives in Hokkaido. Rather a long trek for a local spring festival, no? Your father's father will be coming."
Her breath hitched. She didn't quite know why, but that didn't sound correct..
But the look on her parents' faces told her that it was nothing to stress about.
Which…also did not feel correct, despite her wanting this all to feel right.
However, out of nothing but habit and discipline, she gave a bow. "Yes. I will be sure to greet him."
After washing up and putting the dishes away, Sayuri stepped into her room to find a haori to wear outdoors. It was colorfully decorated, with woodblock prints hung on the paper walls, and a crucifix nailed above where she usually placed her futon, which was currently rolled into a corner.
A low table sat in the center, an open tome and a red pendant laying side-by-side.
"Huh?"
She reached to pick the pendant up. Was this always there? What is that?
When it came into her hands, her shoulders relaxed. The fountain pen she was using for her homework settled between her fingers. On the table was a history book of Western Europe.
"Maybe the udon's made me tired," she thought aloud. She heard that eating a lot of food in a short amount of time could make someone suddenly sleepy.
She put the pen down and knelt by a storage chest. It wasn't long before she found something to pair with her white kimono—a crimson red haori, a signature of the Tohsaka family. She hummed happily as she slipped it on without a moment's hesitation, then went outside to greet her grandfather.
When Sayuri stepped onto the front lawn, her eyes betrayed her thoughts.
No, it wasn't just that. Her thoughts betrayed her thoughts.
Because the person standing in front of her, was—
"Ahhh, Sayuri-chan. It is good to see you."
She caught her breath in her throat. He looked exactly as he did in the portraits, except older, a little more grisled, and hunched from his elderly years. Yet still, the red haori and properly-trimmed, western-style beard made it clear that he was unmistakably a Tohsaka.
"Grandfather…"
She never got a chance to speak with him. He was long gone before she was even born.
What am I talking about? she immediately felt herself saying, I saw him last week. We were playing Shogi and laughing over tea. He's here, I'm here. I'm fine.
Her breath quickened. Two voices that were her own struggled between her ears as she tried to figure out which truth was correct.
Ultimately, one won out.
"Yes. It is good to see you, too."
She walked next to him, and the two settled down by the grass as they waited for the fireworks. Moments later, her parents joined them, each with a hot cup of matcha as the first bursts of fireworks shot into the sky.
Their estate overlooked Kamakura on a small hill, so they never needed to go into town to watch the fireworks; they were easily viewed from their lawn.
"So, Sayuri-chan, have you found someone to take as your husband yet?" her grandfather asked.
"I— Grandfather, you asked me this last week. No, not yet. Not until I know I can get into a university overseas."
"Oh, so you're looking for a European boy?" her mother teased, patting her on the head. Sayuri didn't stop her.
"That's not what I said," she huffed, "but I also wouldn't be against it, I suppose."
Her grandfather joked, "I'm just saying, I have a good few years left in me. I would love to become a great-grandfather before I croak!"
A flurry of color blanketed the sky, pausing their conversation—which was more of a team-up on Sayuri—for now as red, green, yellow sparkled in their view.
It was beautiful.
A flush of warmth came across Sayuri's face. So pretty…
She could imagine her future entwined with the flaming flowers in the sky.
Travel overseas. Become educated, something that was harder for women to achieve here at home. Find a man that she could call her equal, whether it was here or across the oceans.
"We'll be here when you leave." Her father said. "No matter where you go, just know you have support back home. We'll be cheering for you."
"Thank you," she said, a little more sheepishly than she liked to admit. "I'll do my best out there. I hope that,"
She reached out to the booming blossoms coloring the night, "I'll create a legacy as bright and colorful as these fireworks. No, brighter!"
Something she didn't expect to feel on her face, curled warmly as the hanabi roared above her.
With a smile, Tohsaka Sayuri gripped the distant flames.
It was warm.
Too warm.
Much, much too warm.
Hot, hot, hot, hot hot hot hot—!
"Wait—!"
She jerked her hand away from the sky.
The rainbow of colors was now just one, solid color.
A burning, harsh orange singed her retinas as she stumbled backwards onto the dry, wrinkled grass.
Smoke filled her lungs. She retched and coughed violently, trying to stay low and force the toxins from her throat.
"What am I—where am I—what—!?"
Her head pivoted in every direction. Her mother, father, gone. She was alone. Again.
That is, until she felt a flop of a cold body collapse at her feet. Yelping, she covered her nose as she smelled something terrible.
"This will be you."
A voice crashed against her eardrums, whispered yet as loud as a cannon.
It was much, much easier to recognize now. The cold tone, the raspy, tuberculosis-ridden voice, it was—
"Father, I—!"
"Unless you learn to become a proper Tohsaka, this will be you."
She peered down at the body below her.
"Grand…father?"
A shadowed silhouette stood above the corpse.
Dressed in skintight blue, carrying a bloodred lance dripping in even more blood.
"Your legacy is not across the sea. It is here. I cannot go on. This body betrays me. So go in my stead. Someone has to.
Remember, Tohsaka are always proper. Always calm, always reserved, yet always prepared.
You are not ready, Sayuri. But this War does not wait for you. If only we had a few more decades, and maybe you would have a chance."
The entity before her raised his lance. Not at her grandfather, but aimed at her own stomach.
She lifted her arms to protect herself. It was most certainly fruitless, because what was standing before her was not human.
"Grow up, Sayuri. Understand that as a magus, you must realize the legacy of your family. We are one of the Three. You must act as such.
Otherwise, this will be you."
The Servant thrusted their spear.
Sayuri's eyes shot open.
The dream had ended.
And blood spilled down her chin as she let out a violent, sputtering cough, her body covered in debris and the fading viscera of a dying monster.
Something from the ceiling—or maybe the floor?—of the train car broke and fell right onto her stomach.
A needle-sharp pain overwhelmed her senses.
And it all went to black.
Sayuri awoke to the warmth of someone scooping her up.
She felt something warm, stinging and sticky pool at her midsection. That, coupled with the ringing in her ears and the panging pain between them, she quickly came to one conclusion.
The train crashed…how?
She tried to breathe, but was met with another bloodied cough. The person carrying her—definitely a male, based on his size—held her a bit tighter as he broke into a sprint. Her blurry vision only somewhat made out the red-tipped blonde of his hair.
"You're that woman from before. Apologies, let me patch you up once we're out of here."
The cool breeze of outdoor air helped to stabilize her breathing a little as the man set her down on the ground. Her eyes shut, she silently left all her trust in that eccentric blonde as he seemed to put pressure on her wound.
She heard him slash a piece of cloth. Carefully, he then sat her up as he wrapped it around her body, bandaging the wound as much as he could.
"There. It isn't much, but it should be enough to keep you stable before a doctor arrives."
He took a short pause as he set her back down. "I have to go take care of a colleague now. Stay put and breathe slowly, okay?"
Sayuri weakly nodded. She heard him get up and walk off. Just as she figured he was out of earshot, she opened one eye and lifted her left arm.
Glowing green, viridescent geometric lines curved across her forearm, beating with light in tandem with her heartbeat.
It was her Magic Crest—the proof of a mage's legitimacy, and one of the Tohsaka's most powerful assets. It would heal her over time better than current medicine could, and within an hour or so she would be back on her feet and relatively normal—at the cost of some of the Crest's power.
The pain right now was all too real, though. She folded her kimono and haori over her sleeve again to hide her esoterics, and focused on breathing.
Faintly, she overheard that man speaking to one of those boys.
"You're bleeding from the gut…Picture your nerves reaching all through your body. Concentrate. More!"
Out of nothing but general curiosity, she tilted her head and opened an eye.
The young man in the checkered haori was in the same position as her—and seemingly, bleeding from the same place.
The foreign-haired man poked the boy's forehead.
"Good. You've stopped it. It won't fix everything, but you will get stronger from this."
"Thank you—"
"As for the others! There are many injured, but no losses. There's no need to strain yourself, so rest up."
As they spoke, one detail about that blonde man made Sayuri take pause.
There's many injured, but HE'S not injured.
Not in the slightest. She didn't know how the train crashed, but something like that was bound to, at the very least, minorly injure every single passenger.
Wait, there was something even stranger about this.
There's ONLY injured? No one was killed?
Her exhausted mind wracked with these details as she lay motionless, the only actions she made being to breathe.
How is that even possible? Unless…if that man is uninjured, and everyone got away alive…
She took another look at him. On top of his eccentric clothing choices and hairstyle, he also had a katana strapped to his waist.
A samurai? In this era? No, a simple swordsman couldn't have saved hundreds of people in a crash. Meaning that—
She bit her lip.
He's a mage, isn't he?
It was the only explanation that made sense. If he were a Servant—likely Saber, considering the sword—he'd have given off magical energy that she could trace to him. There was none; meaning that he must have just been an expert at concealing it. It was strange that he was able to hide it even from herself, but she ignored that detail for now. There wasn't any other explanation that made sense to her.
If he's a mage, then that boar-head guy and those two others must be his apprentices, or something. Great.
She inwardly sighed. I hope they aren't involved in the Grail War. I don't want them to be my enemy.
If they were the type of mages to save lives, she didn't want to oppose them or have to kill them. Mages who acted as heroes were a dime a dozen; almost every single one was taught to be self-centered and ruthless, only serving the public if it suited them.
Wait. Grail War. Grail War, Grail War…my bag!
She checked her flank. It wasn't on her shoulder anymore.
She reached around herself in an arc. She didn't feel any fabric. Looking around as best she can, she didn't see any such leather handbag anywhere nearby. It must have come off of her in the train crash and was somewhere still in the rubble.
Her legacy, as well as her trump card for the coming War, were in that pouch. If she lost it, then—
No, don't think that. I will have to procure it when I'm able to stand. It will still be a while until rescue comes, so I have time to recuperate.
An ear-shattering crash shocked her eyes awake.
Any time to recover or think slowly had been wiped away with a single boom.
Sayuri tilted her head, and spotted that swordsman turned to a cloud of dust, hand on his katana.
The cheery, rather unserious face he gave her on the train, and even when tending to her, was gone.
A serious scowl, for the first time.
"What is…"
And a beat later, the pressure reached her. She couldn't quite define it, but it was choking.
It was a similar feeling to walking into a hostile mage's bounded field, yet somehow even more malicious. It washed over her defenseless body, threatening to crush her if she didn't move.
Wincing, she tried pushing herself onto her arms. Unsuccessful.
As she struggled to even get to her knees, she caught the appearance of the figure in the collapsing dust cloud.
They are…
Her eyes narrowed, then widened in shock.
They are not human. They cannot be.
They had the shape. Two arms, two legs, a head.
But their skin was a sickly grey, with lined tattoos across his arms and muscled, lean body. His golden eyes glinted—she could tell at this distance that his irises were lettering, but she couldn't make out the characters.
They were human only in appearance. But the pressure they gave off, and the details of their body…
Oni.
That was the only thing that came to mind. Her mind temporarily thought Servant, but the Holy Grail was only programmed to summon genuine heroic figures. Not monsters.
A Phantasmal this far into the modern era? How is that even possible!?
Ever since she got onto that train, questions that she never seemed to be able to properly answer kept popping up. This one, however, was the most alarming.
Phantasmal Beasts were supposed to be relegated to the past, only able to be summoned to the present by a mage's will; and even then, they had to be incredibly powerful in order to bring a creature like that into the modern, Mystery-weak age.
So that means there has to be someone behind this. A mage was likely following me, and crashed the train to prevent me from summoning my Servant. And now that I am still alive, they summoned a Familiar to finish me off.
Dammit! Why did I not sense anything sooner!?
She rolled onto her stomach. Sharp pain shot into her gut, but she bit her lip and stopped herself from yelping in pain. Now was not the time to seem weak.
She lifted her head to face the creature ahead of her.
But they vanished from sight in less than a blink of an eye.
She froze.
This is it.
But a slash of metal proved her otherwise. Not to protect her, but the boy laying several meters away.
The flame-haired man's katana, glinting with red and black, had slashed at speeds she couldn't comprehend.
The Familiar jumped away, his arm bifurcated in two. Yet, when he landed, he instantly stitched it back together, the damage meaningless.
Wait. He is not after me?
She turned to the swordsman. So he is probably a Master candidate too, then.
The swordsman spoke first, putting his blade between himself and the enemy. "Why would you go after a wounded person before me? We just met, and I already dislike you."
Sayuri's brain wracked once again.
They went after the kid!?
None of her theories were lining up with observation. The Familiar's target was not her, and was not the swordsman—the only two people who could possibly be mages on the train, and therefore a threat for the Holy Grail War.
No—the Familiar went after that checkered haori kid.
That wasn't a decision a mage would make. So is this Familiar acting of his own accord?
She decided to stay low. Drawing attention to herself when she was already hurt probably wasn't ideal. The enemy already proved he could move faster than she could see.
"I have a proposal for you. Why don't you become a Demon?"
"No."
"I absolutely despise weaklings, but I can tell how strong you are. A Hashira, right? Your fighting spirit is as tempered as a pristine blade. Tell me your name."
She watched the swordsman ready into a stance as he announced, "I am the Flame Hashira, Rengoku Kyojuro."
The Demon across the way squatted just by a few degrees, but enough to make a solid guard. "I am Akaza. Let me make something clear to you, Kyojuro: your strength is not enough to face me. Simply put, it is because you are human. All humans will eventually grow old and die."
Sayuri looked between the two parties. She didn't expect an Oni to be as articulate as he was, though she figured that there were some exceptions, such as the ones from Mount Ooe.
Akaza extended his hand, as if offering an olive branch, "but if you become a Demon, then you can hone your strength for two, three, four more centuries and beyond. You can be invincible."
The swordsman, named Rengoku, did not seem to waver in the slightest at his proposal, however.
"Both growing old and dying…they are what makes humans beautiful. Though that may seem like weaknesses to your kind, those are what makes our lives precious and honorable. True strength is not exclusive to the physical body."
He took a step forward.
"This boy—and everyone behind me—are not weak. Don't insult them. No matter what twisted reasons you give, I will not yield to you!"
Sayuri felt his words stew in her head.
True strength isn't the physical, hm?
She bit her lip. She felt the blood drip down from the cracked skin as the two parties sized each other up further. The tension could break with nothing more than a falling leaf.
Then, the Oni slammed his foot into the dirt.
The malicious presence emanating from him doubled in pressure as he grinned with unfiltered sadism.
"Killing you it is, then."
The monster flashed forward in a blur she couldn't read. The swordsman met him with concise ease, his sword parrying the strike as he slashed at his midsection with fiery will, forcing the gray beast to step back and reset.
They met like this repeatedly, until a cloud of dust partially obscured her vision.
So fast…
She coughed a spittle of saliva and blood. A part of her had the urge to help. He saved her life, so it was only fitting to return the favor.
But what good could I do?
They were moving at speeds that could possibly keep up with Servants—and it was unrealistic for any mage to stand up to a Servant in head-to-head combat.
And it was even less realistic for an injured one to think she could make a difference.
Her stressed eyes cooled down for a moment.
If he's a Mage, and he gets taken down, then that's one less threat for the Holy Grail War.
She shook her head.
But—how do I even know he's a mage?
That was just a presumption she made. There was no actual, physical evidence that he was a magus like her. He was superhumanly powerful, yes—but nothing about the way he swiped his blade made him seem like he was a practitioner of the arcane.
He was simply good with a katana.
Very, very good at it.
Rengoku met each of Akaza's strikes, the latter's fist becoming laden with blood, yet healed as quickly as the cuts formed. Every strike Rengoku made seemed to have no effect, meanwhile—
Kyojuro swiped his blade wide. Akaza hopped into the air to avoid it, then stressed his hand into a fist.
"Destructive Death—Air Type!"
A pressurized gust of wind shot out, and instantly struck Rengoku's sword. He strained as Akaza repeated the technique by the dozens, blowing him back as it began to crack through his guard.
"—Blooming Flame Undulation!"
The flame-haired swordsman twisted his sword in an arc. The strikes of wind were fought off, though not without great effort.
Just from that exchange, Sayuri could tell.
He cannot win this.
He was unharmed for now, but slightly winded. Akaza, the Oni trying to end his life, seemed unbothered and completely, confidently healthy.
If this goes on, he will fall. They're equal in speed and strength, I think, but their stamina is too different.
She gazed into the dirt, as if it could give her an answer.
If he dies, there's no guarantee that Oni will stop at him. He might come after me, and the innocents behind me too. He did say he hated weaklings, so he could just wipe us out after he kills him.
She lightly punched the ground.
Dammit, all of my jewels are in my bag. Is there really nothing I can do?
Drip. Drip.
She gasped quietly. Amongst the fighters' duels and loud exchanging of words, the young magus realized her solution.
It was currently dribbling from her midsection, in tiny red rivulets.
"That's it."
Sayuri gazed down at the small pool of her own blood. Her moving around had probably relieved pressure and therefore opened the wound again, but that was actually good for her right now. "I need this to draw it. This is perfect."
She sat up through the pain, and took a sharp breath in as she held out her fingers.
"Ack—!"
Then shoved it into her own wound, forcibly allowing more blood to come out. She partially undid her kimono, just enough to reveal her midsection.
She didn't need her blood wasted on her clothes.
She needed it on the ground.
The mage knew that, at the rate she was bleeding, she would only have a few minutes before she passed out from blood loss. Her Magic Crest would save her—albeit, at the cost of way more mana than it would have been before—but that didn't change the fact that she had roughly 180 seconds to draw the circle and make this work.
We studied this. Every day, for the past ten years, we studied this! Every detail of it! We committed it to memory!
A hexagram first. Within the six-sided star, a circle. Connecting each tip was a second circle, then a final concentric circle around the outside.
She was moving quite a lot—the circle had to be at least two meters in diameter, but luckily everyone was too distracted by the battle in front of her to pay attention to what she was doing.
She traced the symbols with neat precision, making sure it matched the tomes that were burned into her mind from many sleepless nights. She would wince as she dug her fingers into her flesh to pull out more blood to draw with.
Enough had spilled out from her to probably make the average person catatonic. She was only continuing from pure, steeled, mage-driven adrenaline.
She finished the last symbol. She counted as best as she could in her head, and knew that it took about two minutes to complete.
"Now…for the incantation…!"
She carefully, on all-fours, stepped out from the center and held out her arm, which needed her second to keep outward. It hurt like hell to let her gut bleed freely, but she now only needed to say a rehearsed incantation she had practiced a thousand times.
I can't let my journey end here.
I can't let my legacy die here.
And I can't—
She gave one last look to the battlefield ahead.
She heard explosions, pressure waves push against her, and voices shout and cry out at each other. The only reason she didn't look was because she was purely focused at the task at hand; any distraction and she would run out of time.
But now, ahead of her…
Rengoku and Akaza stood several meters apart, but she knew that the latter could close that distance in an instant.
While his back was turned to her, she could see the blood dripping down between his legs. His breath was staggered, heavy—a far cry from the uninjured state he was in previously.
I was right. He's going to die. Unless—!
"Let my blood be the essence. Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation. Let my great Master, Schweinorg, be the ancestor."
The blood circle she drew began to faintly shimmer. It was working—she got the circle right.
Now she just had to execute. Without her catalyst, she had no idea what Heroic Spirit would call for her.
But any of them would be able to lend a hand here.
"Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall, and let the four cardinal gates close. Let the three-forced road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom, rotate."
She felt her vision blurring at the corners, yet the circle was starting to glow brighter. Bystanders around her were no doubt able to see what she was doing, but she heeded no mind to them. What they saw could be dealt with later.
It's either she does this, or all of them will die.
"I hereby declare. Your body shall serve under me, and my fate shall be your sword. Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail. If you submit to this will and this reason…then answer."
She coughed.
Her arm could no longer be held up, and she fell onto all fours.
Blood continued to seep from both her mouth and stomach, but she eked out the words as much as she strained, anyway.
"An oath shall be sworn here. I shall attain all virtues—"
An obscene, sputtering cough expelled from Sayuri's mouth.
"—of Heaven, and dominion over all evils of Hell. From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power…"
She reached out her hand. The circle's light was reaching a climax, now sputtering with fulminating crimson lightning.
"Come…forth…"
Her hand fell.
And all at once, the circle faded into ordinary darkness.
"Don't tell me it's over, Rengoku."
Akaza's snakelike voice harshly resounded in the young swordsman's ear as the Demon reprimanded his opponent.
"I won't have you die on me. You're too powerful to be allowed to perish."
Tanjiro gripped his sword, but the pain from the stab earlier prevented him from standing. He could hear it—Rengoku-san's breaths, deep and intentional. He was using Total Concentration Breathing to close off the wounds he had as much as he could, just like he had taught the young slayer.
But with the injuries he sustained, I don't think…
Rengoku. Rengoku, Rengoku!
For what was probably the first time in history, a Slayer and a Demon both had the same wish.
I don't want to see you die!
"Don't you see that fighting to your last breath, in that frail human body, will never measure up to me?" Akaza said, colder than ice.
You shut your mouth!
Tanjiro grit his teeth so hard he swore he chipped a tooth. Grabbing his blade, he pushed himself beyond his limits to stand; but his body refused to follow the orders of his mind.
He's way stronger than you'll ever be! He dealt so many blows upon you that if you were a human, YOU would be the one on the ground, right now! You're a coward, is what you are!
He slammed his fist to the floor as he faltered. Gripping his stomach, he got one knee up.
I want to go help him. I just don't have the strength to move!
He fell back to square one, curled up as the pain in his lower torso skyrocketed.
Please. He needs to be saved. I refuse for this to be the end of Rengoku-san's life. He did so much for us, he's still too young…I want him to fight with us to the end!
Ba-bump.
A chilling pain burned into the back of the young swordsman's hand. He took a glance at it, confused at the strange markings that were forming—but it did little to affect his focus at the scene ahead of him.
Rengoku-san, Giyu-san, and all of the Demon Slayer Corps, have just one wish: to free the world from all Demons, and bring forth a better tomorrow!
Ba-bump. Ba-bump, Ba-bump—!
So please, my body, anyone…don't let our journey end here!
Kamado Tanjiro cried out.
It was a cry of desperation, one that even got Akaza to do a second-take. In almost anyone's eyes, it would look pitiful at best, and pathetic at worst.
And at that fateful moment, a flash of white blinded the early, sunless morning.
Tanjiro fell backward, the light searing his retinas as he groaned and stumbled.
In his ears, he caught words from voices he didn't yet recognize.
"Ah, so she's succumbing to…that's a shame."
"If only she could be here. This is probably the decisive battle."
"She was the best of us. It's a shame she's bedridden now."
"Poor little flower. She was just like a sakura, huh? Far too beautiful to be in this world for more than a moment."
"…I wish that I could be there with all of you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…!"
The light began to fade from his vision.
A gust of wind flashed by his body too fast for him to fully process. The only thing he was able to catch was the briefest glimpse of teal as it zipped by him like lightning.
Almost the same instant later, he heard the all-too familiar slashing of flesh.
Blood spattered into the sky, limbs went flying; all in the space that it took for a butterfly to flap its wings.
The one who was mutilated was not Rengoku.
He was standing in the same place as before, just as awestruck and dumbfounded as Tanjiro was.
Because standing across from them, in a pool of his own blood, as his arms, body, left leg, and torso were all amputated, slashed, and bifurcated…
…was the one known as Akaza, the Upper Rank Three.
Kyojuro had only been a Slayer for a few short years. He was a prodigy, and rose through the ranks blisteringly fast.
In his years, he had seen his peers rise and fall. People he called friends and comrades succumbed to the Demons they took an oath to destroy. In the end, at the top of a mountain of corpses, he stood at the top alongside a small number of fellow Hashira.
But not one.
Not a single one of them: Tomioka, Kanroji, Iguro, Shinuzagawa, Himejima, Tokito, Kocho, Tengen…
None of them were as fast as what he just witnessed.
Even for him, it was a blur.
And assumedly, for the Upper Rank currently standing shocked in a pool of red, limbs collapsed around him, it was an unbelievable blur to him, too.
Kyojuro kept his breathing steady, deep, and paced. Even with the shocking scene in front of him, he refused to falter his Total Concentration Constant. His wounds were severe, but if needed, he could patch them up for one final clash. He would just need serious medical attention afterward.
Akaza's mouth was agape. His body was slow to heal—was it because something was stopping him, or because he was simply too stunned to consciously remember he had to?
The Demon's mouth gargled as he spat out blood. Assumedly, he was trying to gather up the words to speak. "How…what was—?"
He turned his head. The thing that had struck him faster than a lightning bolt was just behind him.
And as soon as he did, a rip of flesh and blood burst out like fountains once again.
Even though it happened so unbelievably swiftly, it also seemed to happen in slow motion.
Kyojuro watched as the Demon he had fought so hard just to deal any blow against staggered backwards, as their face was slashed perfectly horizontally.
Right in their eyes, splitting both with surgical precision, and cutting eight or nine centimeters into the head, tearing into the brain.
His body seized, then fell onto its knees.
And a breath later, the swordsman that cut him down appeared in a flash between Akaza and Kyojuro, their moon-silver katana stained in Demon blood.
Their face was hidden from view underneath their blonde bangs. A single, small ponytail held back their hair, a look that was classic for swordsmen of the time.
Their black hakama and scarf, white kimono—it was all ordinary for a swordsman, too. If they stood amongst the Hashira with just that outfit, they would blend right in.
But there was one detail that was completely out of place.
Their haori.
Sky teal with the white peaks of the mountains.
It was far too recognizable.
And far too antiquated.
Shinsengumi?
Kyojuro blinked slowly, trying to process the figure before him as they stood tall. There was another discrepancy about them—their size. They were smaller than Kamado. If they were a male, they would be much too undersized for a Slayer, and would be borderline if they were a woman.
A delicate-looking sword wielder stood before him. Their icy eyes, the same shade as their hair, gazed at him like glass.
He froze. Even though he was focused on Total Concentration Breathing, he froze just for a breath.
I don't see…anything.
Normally, he had a decent read of people's intentions just based on looking at their eyes.
But for the warrior before him?
Nothing. He could read nothing from their gaze. It was as if their emotions had been erased, or suppressed until there was nothing.
"You look worse for wear. I would recommend resting."
They said it extremely matter-of-factly. No compassion or empathy behind it; simply fact.
Rengoku broke into a chuckle. It was exactly what he told Tanjiro just moments earlier. He wasn't used to being the one that was ordered to relax.
"You—!"
The Demon's voice, dripping with malice, resounded behind them. Kyojuro's eyes widened as Akaza, now fully healed, took a wrathful step forward.
The Shinsengumi swordwielder twisted their body halfway, and tilted their head in what seemed like perplexity. "Hmm. I thought that would have done the job."
Kyojuro raised a brow. How do they not know that about Demons?
Regardless, he threw away his suspicions and told them what they needed to know.
"The head," he said, between healing breaths, "you have to cut it off."
The swordswielder gave him a nod. "Understood."
They gripped their katana tight again—
—and vanished in a breeze of teal toward their enemy.
The Upper Rank Three almost didn't have time to lift his arms before the sword crashed into their body.
He was flung backwards, teeth grating as the wind whipped at mach speed past his ears. His back thudded hard against a tree, cracking and snapping the wood as he grunted and marched out.
His arms had been halfway chopped off. Sneering, he healed them in a single breath. "Well you're a new one, aren't you? So? What kind of Hashira are you? And what's with that outdated haori?"
Akaza crossed his arms as he sized up the swordwielder in front of him.
The first thing that stood out was their haori. It was from an organization of swordsmen that functioned in Kyoto just before the Meiji Restoration—the Shinsengumi, if he recalled correctly. He had traveled to Kyoto back then to challenge the one who he heard was the strongest among them, but left in disappointment after learning he had already died from tuberculosis.
That's why being a human is pitiful. Even the strongest of warriors can fall to illness.
They were also small—smaller than that weakling laying behind Kyojuro. A part of him had a suspicion they were a woman, but from his knowledge and experience, female Slayers didn't usually fight with pure speed or brute force.
Speaking of their speed—it was almost incalculable. Much faster than the Flame Hashira, and almost beyond his own perception.
"You actually had me surprised for a second there. You cut my limbs far faster than Kyojuro over there did. It was impressive, really! Strength like yours doesn't come by very often!"
The swordsman remained silent, even their breaths inaudible.
Akaza narrowed his eyes. He wasn't used to Slayers being so non-talkative. "Not really vocal, are you? Alright. Looks like I'll play it your way, then."
He stomped on the ground with a smirk. A massive cerulean snowflake emanated from him as he tightened his guard.
"Technique Development: Destructive Death, Compass Needle."
Akaza's eyes locked onto the warrior in front of him.
His ability, Compass Needle, gave him the unique power to read an opponent's fighting spirit. With it, he is able to predict the intent and movements of his enemies, oftentimes countering and knowing what they will do before they even consciously think it.
That was how he was able to constantly fight off and counter Rengoku. His strength of will was great, sure—but it was that same willpower that allowed Akaza to read what he wanted to do, and give the perfect counter and parry every time.
"…huh?"
He let his steely nature shudder outwardly, just for a moment. Shameful for a Demon, but he couldn't help it.
Because for the first time, he was staring into a human-shaped void.
Why can't I—!?
He twitched.
And just like that, the swordwielder was right on top of him. It was practically teleportation.
It was also something he couldn't read in the slightest.
Grunting, he threw his arm up to guard his neck. The sword crashed into his forearm, immediately slicing through it like butter and breaking the skin of his neck.
"NO—!"
The Demon, for the first time that night, roared with desperation as he instinctively kicked forward, sending a gust of pressurized wind toward the small swordsman's torso.
Yet they twirled in midair, curling around the attack with almost instinctive movement, and made another slash at his neck from the other side.
Now that Kyojuro told them where my weak point is, that's all they're going for!
Even Hashira didn't aim for the neck 100% of the time. Demons know that that's what all Slayers ultimately want to cut, so the latter usually tries to throw them off by attacking other points and feinting attacks at it. Here, every movement, and every centimeter and fiber of this swordsman's being was being totally committed to one thing:
Cut off the Demon's head.
Akaza scowled. It was predictable, but not to a fault, because with every swing, every strike—
I don't know if I can stop them forever!
Akaza leapt into the air, assisted by Leg Types as he tried to get distance between them. He had a theory that he needed to test.
He's fast, but he looks as frail as a flower. If I can just hit him once, maybe I can win.
"Destructive Death: Air Type!"
He swung his arms in rapid succession, dozens per second down at the ground, even faster than he had committed against Kyojuro. For the former, he was trying to recruit him. Here, he only had one mission:
I have to kill this Slayer. And at the very least, survive to tell the others.
The shockwaves careened into the ground. His enemy, however, did not seem phased.
They seemed to know, despite their invisibility, where they would land before they touched them. Zipping past each strike, they pushed off with their legs and flashed into the air.
Right in front of him. Again.
How did he—!?
"DISORDER!"
He threw his arms as fast as his body could allow, each thrust blasting out a pressurized field of air that could flatten anyone who tried to get close.
For the first time, the swordwielder seemed to go on the defensive as they held their katana in front of them, protecting them from the brunt of his blows.
There, finally!
He shot downward, glad he was finally on the offensive for once. "Leg Type!"
He whipped his leg around into a downward roundhouse.
The Demon grunted as he felt his leg get slashed clean off— now flailing uselessly in the air.
"Crushing Type…!"
But that's exactly what he was going for. Now that their guard was open from their slash, he could directly strike their midsection.
"Ten Thousand Leaves, Flashing Willow!"
He fired his arm down like a firework rocket, aiming to blow a hole straight through their paper-thin body. With just a meter's distance, he'd shatter their frail form in an instant.
And it was only then that he realized that their blade was half that distance away from his neck, and closing in even faster.
Why didn't I sense that—!?
He had to abort his Destructive Death, and raise his arm to block as he tore through his limb effortlessly, then whipped him like a ragdoll back toward the earth.
He hit the dirt with a humiliating thud, being sent tumbling and twirling before crashing uselessly into the train car.
Ironically, where he had previously sent Rengoku flying.
He spat out a tooth that healed immediately after it exited his body. The injuries he sustained rapidly regenerated as well as he emerged from the crater that his opponent had sent him in.
There was one part of him that hadn't healed, however.
His pride.
I can't read them.
He realized that truth halfway through being tossed into the ground.
The Upper Rank gazed ahead, and watched as the swordsman quietly stepped toward him.
Each movement of their feet was deliberate. Quiet, more silent than a shinobi. He could tell that their eyes, hidden by their bangs, were passively glaring into his soul like a wrathful kami.
My Compass Needle can't read him. He doesn't have any fighting spirit at all. He doesn't have any enjoyment, any hatred, any passion or will behind his strikes. Kyojuro's was a bonfire.
His is a bottomless pit. Like an empty husk.
He got into another fighting stance. He was one of the Upper Ranks, among the Top Three. He could not simply surrender because an unknown variable was getting the better of him. So what if they were stronger than a typical Hashira?
He was still a Demon. Far beyond what a mere human could do. All he had to do now was show them that their efforts were still fruitless.
"Destructive Death…"
He crouched down, and readied both of his arms. The Slayer had the unique and frustrating ability to warp in front of him—so all he had to do was blast him with unrelenting, overpowering brute force.
Across the way, he swore he heard them mutter something under their breath as they lowered their stance and stepped forward.
"First step, swifter than sound…"
Laughing, the 3rd Ranked Demon fired his arms forward with godspeed. At the same time, he saw them break out into a sprint, right into the wall of death he was about to create.
"Second step, infinite suffering….third step, the absolute sword!"
"Annihilation Type!"
His shockwaves obliterated everything in front of him. The earth flattened, nearby trees were snapped in two or sent flying as the wind he compressed had enough mass to completely level a multi-story building.
Even if that swordsman could warp somehow, they would find themselves completely enveloped by a torrential burst of death that would crush their petite body.
Akaza smiled wildly. There was no way that any human opponent, Hashira or not, could have survived an attack that overwhelmingly destructive.
"Mumyou…"
He froze.
The winds immediately died down as his body finally signaled the truth to his brain.
He had been hit before he had even thrown his punches.
"…Sandanzuki."
His throat suddenly burst open. Three holes pierced his neck, thrusting through him as effortlessly as air.
It had somehow happened faster than he could even register it. His head craned up into the air, unable to speak thanks to his windpipe being pierced and flooding with blood.
Sprays of red gushed from his wounds. He was so surprised, it didn't even register in his mind to heal yet.
"I—Agh—guh—!"
Before he could even think about reacting, he felt the swordsman's blade slash into his neck, cutting the skin instantly and piercing through.
By pure survival instinct, and nothing else, he grabbed the silver sword with his palm, pushing against it as much as his demonic body could allow.
I can't…die here! I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't! I REFUSE!
It only got worse for him, however. In the corner of his eyes, beyond the mountain peaks, he could see the dawn slowly beginning to break. If the sun were to peek its head over the hills, then—!
No. No, no no no NO! Not now, not here!
He felt the swordsman push further, overpowering him from their superior leverage. Two-thirds of his neck had been slashed, and he was only seconds away from being nothing but a dying, worthless head in the dirt.
Then, he heard it.
A cough.
At that exact second, resisting became much easier.
With a thunderous, malicious roar, the Upper Rank slammed the sword straight out of his neck, and swung around for a blow meant to crush a human into paste.
He didn't know why his opponent suddenly got so weak, but he was lucky that they did.
In the brief moment as Akaza turned around, he could finally read the expression in the swordsman's face.
…What?
Their eyes, that he was never able to fully see underneath their blonde bangs.
The longer lashes. Their gentler, softer contours. Their thin eyebrows, thin lips, and pale skin as delicate as a snowflake, which were currently stained by a red dribble down their chin.
They were remarkably, unmistakably feminine.
His punch instinctively pulled.
This whole time…have I been fighting a—!?
"Rising Scorching Sun!"
Akaza winced as an all-too familiar blade amputated his forearm, and forced him backward.
He looked at the mountains. The sun was seconds from rising. His eyes then darted to the teal haori standing before him.
For the first time in their whole encounter, they finally looked vulnerable. Unfortunately, so was he if he didn't retreat right this second.
And with the Flame Hashira standing between the two of them, getting off a finishing blow would be impossible without dying.
"Fine. I'll acknowledge you, Rengoku Kyojuro," he then shifted over to the small warrior behind him, "…and you. I'll be back for you."
He turned heel, and ran into the safety of the tree cover.
He didn't dare look back. Not now.
As he sprinted off, he covered his mouth.
This night had derailed way beyond what he originally planned. He expected Enmu, that gross Lower Rank one, to die—he wanted it, actually. His real goal was to try and convert—and if not, kill—Rengoku Kyojuro.
Both goals failed. All thanks to—
That swordswoman.
He still wasn't fully certain, but that close up view of them was unmistakable.
Akaza huffed and grit his teeth, because for the first time in his immortal life…
…he had broken his oath, and exchanged blows with a woman.
As soon as the Oni disappeared from view, Saber finally felt it safe to put her katana back in its sheathe.
She wiped her mouth with her scarf. She cursed her feeble body; if her weak constitution didn't choose to rear its ugly head at that exact wrong moment, then she would have that Oni's head rolling on the ground by now.
Instead, she had to accept a draw for now. Acceptable. They're not my primary enemy, anyway.
She looked around. A collapsed train, hundreds of injured bystanders, a powerful human standing in front of her, still surveying the forest in front of her.
Is this what a Holy Grail War is? This doesn't quite match what I was told from it, though. Oh well.
She took a shaky breath in, then began to walk toward the one thing that she did recognize: the presence of her Master. The boy in the checkered haori a few dozen meters away seemed to be it.
Before she could get far, however, she felt a masculine hand gently grab her shoulder.
"Are you alright? You were bleeding from the mouth, just now."
Saber turned to look at him. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and blood was still staining his temple. Not to mention the injuries he sustained all across his body; no doubt was he still fighting some sort of internal bleeding.
But still, she could respect his concern, even in his condition. "I'll be okay," she responded, allowing her voice to soften a little, "like I said before, you should really worry about yourself more. A doctor will be here soon, right?"
The man nodded. "It's daybreak, so we don't have to worry about Demons threatening us."
"I see." She replied. "That's good, uhm…"
She wanted to say his name, next. She swore she overheard that Oni say it a few times, but she was too focused on cleaving his head from his body to remember things like that.
Fortunately, the man seemed to notice, and took a warm and polite bow. "Kyojuro Rengoku. And you?"
She could only say one answer as she bowed in mutual respect.
"You can call me Saber."
"Saber? Like those western swords?"
"Yes, exactly like that." She lifted from her bow, and the two then entered a few beats of awkward silence. After all, what does one exactly say after a life-or-death battle like that?
Saber spoke first. "I'm gonna go, um—"
"Oh yes, certainly. Go do your thing. Thank you."
She nodded, and briskly turned heel toward who she sensed was her Master. She hid her face under her scarf.
For some reason, turning into a Servant had stunted her public speaking abilities. Then again, I wasn't really a talker on the Shinsengumi. I was a doer.
She led her first unit not by words, but by action and example. That's why she was so renowned—or feared, depending on who one asked—amongst the entire organization.
"One more thing, Saber," Rengoku said, his voice a little more serious now.
She met his energy, and tensed up just by a degree as she responded without turning. "What is it?"
"To be blunt…at first, I did not trust you. You appeared out of nowhere, fought an Upper Rank Demon, and not only outmatched him, but you were nearly able to take him out on your own. From my perspective, you looked like a Demon yourself."
She turned her head a little. "Really?"
"Really. We Hashira are a tight-knit group. If there were a swordsman whose speed was beyond one's imagination, and who wore a haori from a bygone era, then I believe I would remember it. But you're not one of us, so my only other explanation was that you were some sort of Demon as well…someone who had turned against them, for some reason. It's not unprecedented; I know a young girl that is just like that, but…"
"So what made you change your mind?"
He pointed to his mouth. "You bled. Demons don't just bleed on their own and not heal it. It told me you're just as human as any one of us."
Rengoku sighed, then looked to the many bystanders still hurt and struggling to get their bearings. "Listen, I have many more questions to ask, and so do my colleagues, most likely. But for now, helping the wounded is more important. So let's save that for later, shall we?"
She smiled faintly. "Right."
His scowled nature melted away into a fiery smile. "All seriousness aside, I loved your spirit as you fought that Upper Rank. I think you would make a great Hashira!"
"What even is a Hashira, Rengoku-san?"
"Huh. So you really are ignorant, aren't you? Don't worry, we'll show you firsthand!"
"Mmm. Maybe after you heal up. But I'd love to see it."
After saying their pleasantries, the two temporarily went their separate ways. Rengoku seemed to start tending to the wounded, while Saber…
Finally.
She took a calming breath, then stepped up to the adolescent boy in the checkered haori. Glancing at the back of his hand, it confirmed what her senses were telling her.
That's him.
Clearing her throat, she spoke to the one who would shape her destiny—and whose fate she would shape, in turn.
"Excuse my delay. That beast was tougher than I predicted. You're my Master, right?"