Shirou Emiya — Doesn't Want to Work Overtime!

With the morning dew still clinging to the forest floor, sunlight filtered through layers of leaves, casting dappled, fish-scale patterns across the path ahead of Shirou.

The forest no longer held the weight and silence of the night. It now felt like a spring surging from the mountains—brimming with renewed life.

Every sound—the rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze, the birds awakening to chirp joyfully beneath the sun—signaled one thing:

The danger had passed.

"[Trace—On]."

As Shirou spoke, a silver-white light shimmered in his right hand. A katana rimmed with green appeared, which he grasped tightly.

It was the sword once wielded by the boy who had fought beside him—the one who had died here.

Shirou had successfully analyzed it. He could now project it with precision.

But whether this reproduced blade carried the same power to sever a demon's neck and end its life… Shirou couldn't be sure.

To him, reverse-engineering the Nichirin Blade was about as difficult as disassembling a household appliance.

There was no mystery. No magecraft. Just cold analysis.

He quickly realized the blade's power came from the sunlight-infused ore from which it was forged—hence its demon-slaying properties.

But his version? A magical construct. Not real ore. Not sunlight.

I'll just have to test it when I meet another demon.

That was all Shirou could do. Wait, and see.

Still…

As he held the projected Nichirin Blade, its green-tinged edge glinting faintly, he felt his breathing change—stronger, more rhythmic. His body seemed to wake up, a faint vitality circulating with each breath.

The exhaustion from last night's battle… was receding.

Not gone. But lessened.

He could feel it. Subtle. But real.

"What… is this?"

Holding the blade, Shirou suddenly felt something else—memories, or more accurately, a technique.

Something about how to wield a sword. Something deep within him stirred.

Following the motion his body seemed to know instinctively, he tightened his grip. A deep, drawn-out breath escaped his lips, and the air around him began to spiral, swirling around his body.

This is... [Wind Breathing—First Form: Dust Whirlwind Cutter]!

A powerful shockwave tore forward, a spiraling vortex of wind blades surging from the edge of his sword. In seconds, the entire area before him was covered in deep, ragged gouges—as if slashed wildly by someone wielding a katana in a frenzy.

"Ghk—!"

A sharp cough tore from Shirou's throat. Blood welled up at the corners of his mouth.

Pain flared across his body. Faint red lines bloomed across his skin, thin trails of blood oozing out.

Halfway through executing the technique, he had lost control.

Now it felt like someone had reached down and clenched his neck—cutting off his air.

He couldn't breathe.

Even with the knowledge—even with the technique—his body wasn't strong enough to handle it.

The new breathing style was invigorating, yes—but it was also violently rejected by his untrained body.

It was like giving a baby a full glass of water and expecting it to gulp it down. The body might have theoretical capacity, but without readiness, it would choke.

And Shirou was choking.

Tanjiro hadn't learned Breathing Styles overnight either. He had trained relentlessly—moved his body. Learning to breathe this way wasn't like receiving a divine revelation. It was like learning to walk. Slow. Staggering. Repetitive.

Not just a technique. A physical evolution.

The darkness started to seep into Shirou's vision, creeping at the edges like it had back when he collapsed in the inn.

His strength faded. His projected blade dissolved into motes of light—scattering like stardust in the morning air.

And then—

Fresh, forest air slammed into his throat like a flood.

Hah—haa—hah—haa—

Shirou collapsed to his knees, gasping like a drowning man just pulled from the depths.

That hurt…

Still shaking, he pushed himself to his feet, chest heaving in ragged, uncoordinated breaths.

If mastering Breathing Techniques required steady, methodical training…

…Then what he just attempted was like trying to sprint a marathon on the first day of practice.

So this… is the power that slays demons?

He thought back to what had just happened. If given the time, he could learn. And having more tools to fight demons—there was no such thing as too many.

On either side of the road, the streetlamps stood in perfect rows, orderly and clean. Utility poles rose at even intervals, standing tall down the center of the path.

Patches of orange-red grass ringed the bases of the poles. The whole street looked carefully designed, brightly colored, almost luxurious.

This must be the town the old man was talking about.

After hastily bandaging his wounds, Shirou continued on in the direction he had set out earlier.

He had no intention of spending another night in the forest.

Not after that.

Especially now that his provisions—whatever hadn't been lost during the fight—were gone. If he didn't reach the town soon, he'd go hungry.

As he entered the town's edge, passing through its pristine streets, people began to eye him warily.

And it wasn't hard to see why.

He had no real bandages, just strips of torn clothing soaked in blood. His body was smeared with dried crimson. On top of that, he carried two swords.

If not for his young face, he might easily have been mistaken for a murderer who'd just come down from the mountains.

And yet—despite the bright, modern surroundings—there were barely any people around.

Just a few sleepy pedestrians. A couple of sanitation workers sweeping the streets.

Most of the storefronts remained shuttered.

It was nearly noon. But this seemingly vibrant town felt deserted—almost like it had slipped into nighttime.

Weird.

Shirou frowned at the eerie emptiness, but muttered nothing aloud.

I've got no money. First, I need to find somewhere I can stay. Then I need to figure out what this place even is.*

His priorities, at least, were clear.

Right now, he needed a place to rest. A place to get his bearings. Somewhere to start uncovering what kind of place this really was—and how he fit into it.