Fate: Emiya the Host

In front of the ten-thousand-meter starting line, Shirou realized he actually couldn't control his thighs.

They seemed to be protesting.

"Ready?", The coach's voice rang out.

Shirou immediately squatted down.

But he almost knelt on the ground and couldn't get back up.

At the moment the starting gun was raised, he still hadn't regained control.

'Put strength into the arms!'

In reality, it was to make the thighs exert force.

'Get up!'

'Stand up!'

'From now on, this is our own battle!'

In the tense struggle where willpower tried to control the body and the body dragged down the will, his knees finally left the rubber track.

At the same time, the gunshot rang out.

From the very start, he gave everything he had.

'SPRINT!'

The one who was once Heracles also let out a roar.

Also choosing to sprint.

"Don't underestimate me, Emiya Shirou!"

'What a joke, I have never underestimated you!'

'That's exactly why I have to go all out!'

This time, Shirou finally fell behind.

But not far, there was still a chance to overtake.

'Stick close, never let up!'

At the moment when speed was pushed up, after surpassing one meter, two meters, his lungs began to burn.

Breathing and heartbeat soared together, the pulsing in his ears like it had no limit.

Three meters, four meters.

Two laps.

'No slowing down!'

On the field, in the teaching building, on the rooftop, everyone's mouths were wide open.

Bearing witness to this death match.

There was no phrase more fitting than "death match."

The setting sun was sinking. At a speed visible to the naked eye, even its afterheat burned out completely as it fell.

But there were two people still chasing the sun.

Just like Icarus flying towards the sun, before their lives burned out completely, they would never stop their running steps.

Fifth lap, no slowing down.

Sixth lap.

Eighth lap.

Heracles felt his own limit.

Tenth lap—

Shirou's steps tangled, and amid the onlookers' cries, he nearly fell.

'How does the blood taste in the air compare to the pain?'

In the flickering of his vision, it was as if the straight track had begun to curve.

Every step was like stepping into soft cotton, bouncing back, keeping him in place.

The only measure of forward progress was Heracles.

Then, if surpassing him meant losing the goal, where should he run toward?

The gears of memory began to turn.

'My blood is of iron and my heart of glass.'

'Through countless battlefields undefeated.'

'Not even once fleeing, Not even once being victorious.'

'The bearer lies here alone, forging iron on the hill of swords.'

'Thus, my life needs no meaning.'

'This body is made out of inf—'

("Emiya Shirou, what is the price of becoming a hero of justice?",) Red A raised his head.

("That's right! Even if it's borrowed, it's fine; even if it's a fake, it doesn't matter; even if it's hypocrisy, I will still persist in becoming a hero of justice,") The boy ran forward.

("As long as that one person is happy, even if I abandon the world, even if my ideals vanish into nothingness, I just want to be… one person's hero of justice,") The one at the end of the road clung to his final wish.

("Emiya Shirou!")

Red A called out to his younger self, ("Have you thought this through? What lies ahead is hell.")

("A pity.")

The one at the end of the road shook his head, ("I might not even be able to reach hell.")

Yes, where to run was decided from the very start.

For whom to run was also decided from the very start.

There was no hesitation, just cross him, and—

A step lifted from the mud.

Twentieth lap, the strongest hero was overtaken.

Twenty-first lap, Red A's back was within arm's reach; he turned his head, ("Can you keep up?")

"You're the one—"

Closing the last bit of distance, overlapping with his figure, and finally surpassing, ("Can you keep up!")

Twenty-second lap, the boy turned, ("Hero of justice, can you keep up?")

"It should be—"

Every cell in his body was trembling and burning, fire racing along his nerves, up into his consciousness, 'EVEN SO, OVERLAP, SURPASS!'

"You're the ones who should keep up with me!"

Twenty-third lap, the one at the end of the road said, ("If you give up now, it's still in time.")

His vision had already gone; his eyes were full of darkness, only instinct driving his running.

He knew that giving up now wouldn't matter; stopping now wouldn't make anyone disappointed or blame him. He had already done enough, earned enough recognition, even honor.

But that did not belong to Emiya Shirou.

This was a body obtained by system and magical cheating.

Everything, everything, belonged to it.

Only this moment.

Running with everything he had, burning everything, soul, body, including tomorrow.

The present he gained in exchange belonged to Emiya Shirou himself.

It came from Emiya Shirou himself.

So, no reason needed, no stopping, run until he caught up, run until he burned out.

'If there's no tomorrow, then burn it all today!'

'—Overlap, surpass!'

Twenty-fourth lap, not running for anyone else, but for himself.

'Surpass that former self!'

"I am the bone of my sword."

"Steel is my body and fire is my blood."

"I have created over a thousand blades."

"Unknown to Death, Nor known to Life."

"Have withstood pain to create many weapons."

"Yet, those hands will never hold anything."

"So as I pray, Unlimited Blade Works."

At the moment the inner image took form.

The finish line had appeared.

Not the end of hell, not the end of the road, not the end of ideals.

But the start line that belonged to him.

Twenty-fifth lap completed.

Before the last embers of the sunset fell, Shirou had burned himself out.

He stumbled into the girl's arms.

The girl, with her most beautiful, most dazzling smile, whispered, "You worked hard, Shirou."

"Saber…"

The last light of the setting sun shone upon the girl's golden-sand-like hair.

This scene, even if he fell into hell, even after a thousand, ten thousand years, Shirou could recall it vividly.

"Shirou!"

"Senpai!"

"Emiya-kun!"

"Emiya!"

[T/N: The Silk Song is real!]

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