Shirou Emiya — Doesn't Want to Work Overtime!

"Table 13—Tempura!"

"Table 27—Soba noodles!"

One call after another rang out from the restaurant floor.

Beads of sweat slid down Shirou's brow.

Inside the kitchen, his figure moved swiftly and constantly—focused, tireless, and busy.

"Shirou, ever since you showed up, our business has been booming!"

After the lunch rush ended, the portly shop owner clapped him on the shoulder, grinning broadly.

Since Shirou had started working as a chef, the restaurant's earnings had multiplied several times over. Life had become noticeably more prosperous.

"No, I'm just doing what I should. If you hadn't taken me in back then, I might've starved to death on the roadside."

Shirou grasped the old man's hand in heartfelt gratitude. If not for the owner's timely kindness, he probably really would have ended up passed out in some alley.

"Come on, no need to be so humble! I still don't know where a kid like you came from. Not only are you good-looking, but your cooking's phenomenal. You've got all the other chefs in the kitchen eating out of your hand."

"I… it's nothing…"

Seeing that Shirou was about to slip into modest denial again, the shopkeeper waved a hand.

"You've worked hard these past few days—really hard. Anyone would be exhausted at this pace, even a young man. You haven't even had a proper chance to walk around Yoshiwara's pleasure district. I'm giving you the day off. Go out and enjoy yourself!"

"No, that's—"

Shirou instinctively started to decline.

But the owner had clearly anticipated that response. He shoved Shirou out the front door and slammed it shut with a hearty laugh.

"Just be back tomorrow morning!"

"Eh—!"

Shirou let out a long sigh as he stood at the entrance.

He'd been in this town for about a month now, and by this point, he had a fairly good grasp of how things worked in this world.

First was the matter of time. Based on what he remembered from history, this was the Taisho era—an age of relative stability in Japan, with technology slowly advancing.

Then, there were those monsters—creatures akin to vampires, unable to withstand sunlight.

Just as he'd suspected, the general population knew nothing of demons. Most dismissed the idea as old superstitions or peasant nonsense.

Like magi in his own world, the existence of demons was concealed by those in power. Shirou had no real source of intelligence in this world's hidden side, so he had to search on his own.

One piece of good news was that his projection magic had improved dramatically. He could now reliably recreate that green-tinged Nichirin Blade and even replicate Wind Breathing techniques with it.

The bad news: Shirou couldn't reproduce the feeling of the breathing style itself. It only worked when he was actively projecting the sword. No matter how much he practiced over the month, he couldn't use Wind Breathing without conjuring that blade.

Something always felt off. Like it simply didn't mesh with him.

As for [Reinforcement]—no change. Despite continuous training, it remained stable and unremarkable.

He'd also realized that projecting anything other than swords or blades drained his prana rapidly. A single attempt could empty his reserves completely.

And during this whole month, he hadn't encountered a single demon—or a single demon slayer like the boy from before. His life had become strangely ordinary, much like his days back in Fuyuki City.

That thought made him anxious about Fuji-nee and Sakura. Not that he believed they couldn't survive without him—but he worried about what they might do after realizing he'd disappeared.

Yoshiwara's streets glowed like a sea of stars when night fell. The rows of street lamps burned bright, illuminating the entire district like it was still daytime.

It often confused Shirou. He couldn't tell when it was day or night anymore.

The night brought waves of people, laughter, music, and clamor. But by day, the place fell silent, like a ghost town.

Even after living here for over a month, Shirou still hadn't gotten used to the inverted rhythm of this place.

Back home, he often trained his [Reinforcement] late into the night, only to be dragged out of bed by Fuji-nee or Sakura the next morning.

So even here, he was just barely managing.

Still, this nighttime lifestyle—it aligned disturbingly well with a demon's habits.

They feared sunlight. By nature, they only emerged at night.

And a city like this, with its nocturnal bustle and late-sleeping populace… the signs couldn't be more obvious.

This place should have demons.

But after more than a month of searching, Shirou hadn't found a single trace of them. Nor had he seen anyone wielding a colored blade like that boy's Nichirin sword.

Maybe this city really doesn't have demons?

That was the only comforting thought he had.

He'd explored every alley and backstreet by now. Aside from a few vagrants, there were no signs of supernatural activity.

Whenever he asked townsfolk about demons, most brushed him off, saying it was old folklore.

Only a handful claimed to have encountered one—either saying they'd been rescued or trying to scam Shirou out of money.

From everything he'd seen and heard, there really didn't seem to be any demons here.

"Shirou, won't you come upstairs for a bit?"

On a second-floor balcony, several geisha twirled their fans, smiling down at him, their voices lilting with flirtation as they called to the red-haired boy wandering below.

"I'm alright. Just going for a walk."

Shirou waved back politely, then turned and slipped into the crowd.

By now, nearly everyone in the town knew about the new chef at that restaurant.

Not just because of his unforgettable cooking—

—But because in only a month, Shirou had managed to sweep every alley, clean every corner, and help countless people—all without asking for a single thing in return.

Broken equipment, extra hands, reorganizing goods—whatever the issue, Shirou stepped in.

He worked quickly, efficiently, and with quiet skill. And his looks certainly didn't hurt.

More often than not, the moment he left home, someone would call out asking for his help.

Eventually, he became a familiar face to nearly everyone in town—a dependable, kind-hearted young man who never turned anyone away.

Even the geisha of the pleasure district often asked Shirou to make small handcrafted items to enhance their charms. From the tiniest merchant to the busiest performer, people came to know his name.

Of course, some began treating him like a free laborer.

But Shirou didn't mind.

If he could help someone—even a little—that was enough for him.