The world was burning. All the young Shirou knew was that fact. There was no knowledge in the boy, no mind, no soul. He was a husk. Once he was a happy child, with family, friends, and a much beloved little sister. Now, that was gone, only the knowledge that everything was burning remained. It wasn't always like this, he suspected, but he couldn't be sure.

The fire was all he knew. Shirou marched on as the world burned. He could almost remember faces; a family, a little girl with dark hair. The images burned away, like Shirou did. He kept on marching through the hellish flames. The world was screaming, he could hear it.

The world's screams drowned out the screams of the humans still living. Shirou paid the humans no mind. He saw friends and neighbors burn, he smelt the scent of cooking meat, of man. The scent of hate and war filled his being. He kept walking.

"I—of my sword." A voice rings out, steel being drawn.

Shirou heard something, a sound that wasn't suffering, something new. He turned and saw a man. The man was tall, very tall. The boy had to crane his neck up to see his face. The man's hair was a stark white, was it stained by ash? The man's skin was tanned, he wore a strange red coat. Shirou could barely see through the flames, but he knew the man was speaking.

The world's screams fell quiet as the man recited a strange poem. Shirou tilted his head in confusion, why was this man not burning? Why did he not cry out for Shirou's help like the others he had abandoned? The questions fell out of his head as soon as they developed, he had no mind to comprehend the questions, no voice to ask them.

"Unknown to life, nor known to Death," The words felt important. Shirou listened as intently as he could as the man carried on, ignoring the world's wails.

The man was talking about himself in the poem, Shirou realized. It felt sad. Lonely. Like Shirou was. The words felt sad and lonely and heartbreaking, but Shirou didn't have a heart to be broken. He had nothing, no mind, no soul, and no life. The man sounded like Shirou felt. His sad poem was delivered without tone. Completely empty. Like he had done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.

As the strange man kept reciting his poem, Shirou felt the world grow weaker, it's agonized wailing grew quieter. Not weaker, he realized. Further away, distant.

"So as I pray, Unlimited Blade Works!" The man's dull monotone voice suddenly exploded with the spirit Shirou thought dead. Impossibly, even more flames spread through the burning streets. As the flames touched the ground, the world fell away. The flames from the man grew closer and closer to Shirou, but he did not move. He silently stared, uncaring toward whatever came next. Shirou rocked back as the world's cries fell silent, the world was gone. A new one stood in its place. A world of Blades.

Counter Guardian EMIYA stood on the hill in the seat of his soul, staring down at those gathered. He was confused. He saw what he was summoned for, as a Counter Guardian he is charged with the defense of Alaya, the will of all Humanity. In his mortal life, he bargained for the power to save people, foolishly some would say. The will of humanity gave him power, in return for servitude. To Emiya Shirou, this was a good deal, he would be a defender of humanity for all time. A hero. He was wrong.

As Counter Guardian EMIYA, he slaughtered all that would threaten humanity, even humans, especially humans. Collateral damage was his job. Eon after eon, he waded through the blood of innocents caught up in the wrath of humanity. Given enough time, wind will crumble mountains.

EMIYA was steel, he did not crumble. He only grew stronger. After centuries of nonstop violence and war, he was powerful, inhumanly so. That power only grew while linked to the Counter Force. He was one who defended humanity at all costs, he could not afford weakness. He had killed Philosopher magi, Dead Apostle Ancestors, and even a TYPE on one noteworthy occasion. The infinite iterations of the Kaleidoscope offered no end of threats to mankind, and for an infinite amount of time EMIYA stood ready to defend. Even as he grew weary of the bloodshed and destruction, his hands shall only know destruction.

The summoning happened as usual, the spirit of humanity flexed its will, and a guardian appeared. EMIYA stood in a place from what looked like his distant past. Black, cursed flames burned all they touched, dark, seductive whispers filled the air, screams of burning souls echoed around him. He paid it no mind, he was summoned, he had a task.

As a Counter Guardian, he had bartered away his free will. He had his mission, and he had his soul. That was all he had. He paid no mind to the screams of the dying humans around him, there was no need to kill them in the name of humanity, the unholy flames would take care of them soon enough.

He sniffed out the abnormal prana quickly, and went to end it. He sprinted through the embodiment of hell on earth, reinforcement magecraft granting him speed beyond the greatest of men. Buildings crumbled and fell, but EMIYA sprinted straight towards his destination.

In the burning streets, he saw his mission objective. The King of Heroes, Angra Manyu.

The Kaleidoscope is an interesting thing. Everything that ever happened, everything that ever could. All of creation and beyond lay within the purview of the Kaleidoscope. In a single slice, Gilgamesh was drenched in the pollution of the Grail, and it gave him a physical form. Allowing the First King to walk among his kind again, and deem them wanting.

In another, Gilgamesh is drenched in the pollution of the Grail, and is possessed by the Spirit in the Grail, Angra Manyu. The Vaults of the King, his infinite treasury was corrupted by all the evils in the world.

All the Evils in the World, in the body of the King of Heroes. Magi around the world would quake in fear and damn the hubris of their predecessors.

The spirit of darkness stared at EMIYA, and EMIYA stared back. Even through his fragmented memories, worn away by the weight of infinity, he recognized his oldest enemy. He chanted his aria, the summation of his being, the Unlimited Blade Works.

He felt Gaia's hold, lessen and finally break as his Reality Marble materialized, he tried to contain the area called in, but apparently not well enough.

Three beings stood in the seat of EMIYA's soul.

EMIYA himself, Angra Manyu, and a younger version of Emiya Shirou.

The Kaleidoscope is the embodiment of infinity. Everything that can happen, is happening.

In a desolate landscape, strewn with swords, three individuals stood. They were not all human, they were not all men. One was a spirit of evil and darkness, born of humanity's hate. Another was a guardian, a slaughterer of men, women, and children, proximity to the guilty was enough to justify execution by the great guardians of humanity. The last was a boy, his mind and soul burned out of his body by the cursed flames of the spirit of evil. The three met in a place beyond the influence of Gaia, a land of imagination and dreams. The soul of a hero. The reality marble of EMIYA, the Unlimited Blade Works.

Without a word spoken, the demon and the guardian squared off. From EMIYA, a storm of blades erupted from thin air, far faster than anything made by man. In this place, he was king.

Angra Manyu answered with his own swords, stolen and blackened from the vault of the King. Blades of peerless quality flew like bolts of lightning across the wasteland, stopping only when they struck one another. The Guardian of Humanity, and the God of Darkness. The two were ancient, and they were powerful.

The two titans clashed for an eternity in the reality of the Unlimited Blade Works, but there could only be one victor in this place. EMIYA drew a dozen mighty blades, peerless swords. Swords whose existence transcends steel and magic, Noble Phantasms. The Crystallization of Concept, Legend in a Bottle. And he broke them.

EMIYA filled them with prana and twisted. The phantasms became an order of magnitude more deadly, their very identity exchanged for explosive power. To a sane magi, breaking a Noble Phantasm would be the ultimate heresy, but EMIYA was far from sane. And he could always call up more. He had plenty of swords.

The rain of steel pelted the would-be-king, but even that would not be enough to destroy him. A golden chain, glittering and unbreakable, fired from the King's Vault. Using the power of the King's Gate, the chain was reflected a hundred times, creating a perfect prison around EMIYA, the Guardian was trapped. The chain was Enkidu, the Chain that Binds Heaven. It was unbreakable, forged by the gods of old.

The Spirit of all Evils laughed, it was a disgusting, cancerous sound. The simple expression of joy turned into a vile perversion. Mechanically, he extended the King's arm, fingers splayed. The Gate of Babylon opened. Faster and faster, swords shot from the Gate. The prototypes of Noble Phantasms, granted to the King as his right. All aimed at the Guardian. EMIYA snorted.

Magi consider Reality Marbles heresy. This is a statement that needs some expounding. Magi, a people of uniquely amoral stature, consider Reality Marbles to be inherently wrong. The simple study of Reality Marbles is grounds for execution. To attempt to delve into your own, to shun Gaia and cast a new world in the heart of one's own soul? Heresy.

It turns sane magi mad and mad magi into gods. To push a Reality Marble into the world, one's own understanding of reality must be so different, so inherently alien to the human condition that it acts as its own reality.

What do Alexander of Macedon the King of Conquerors, many of the Dead Apostle Ancestors, and Emiya Shirou have in common? Their understanding of the world is so incorrect, they built their own version. Inside their souls, their Reality Marbles, they are Gods. They and they alone understand the rules.

So, when the God of Darkness fired a barrage of proto Noble Phantasms at the bound EMIYA, a snort would be the expected response. In the bounds of Gaia, Enkidu was a Noble Phantasm of unique power. It was the definition of unbreakable, the Platonic ideal. In the soul of EMIYA, a twisted and bent reflection of Gaia? It wasn't even cardboard. Here, in the Unlimited Blade Works, the Noble Phantasm was disconnected from the weight of its legend.

EMIYA ripped through the chains that bound the Bull of Heaven and called forth Rho Aias, the shield of Ajax. The mighty shield. The strongest defense in the Unlimited Blade Works. The concept of defense cast into the shape of a shield. The volley of proto Phantasms barely scratched the first layer.

EMIYA countered.

Standing at the sidelines, was the boy, Shirou. He didn't understand what was going on. One minute, the world was burning, and then he appears here, in this magical land with gears floating unaided in the sky. He knew it was impossible, yet there it was.

To Shirou, the wasteland of swords felt right. It fit, in a place that he didn't know was missing something until now. A piece fell into place in Shirou's broken soul, a key in a lock. The key turned, and something forbidden to him unlocked with a quiet click.

Shirou could hear it, the poem that strange man, EMIYA, recited in hell. It played over and over again in his head. He could see it, the landscape, the fires, the gears, the swords. It was him, and he was it. All he was, his path, his prayer. The door opened, Unlimited Blade Works.

EMIYA sensed what was happening to his younger self, but he was too preoccupied to stop it, the God of Darkness demanded attention. His foolish younger self would have to wait. The gears in the sky spun ever faster.

Shirou was burning again. This time it was not from fire. The influx of information required power to complete the transfer, prana. All twenty seven of Shirou's circuits blazed to life for the first time in his existence. Shirou screamed as his origin, the very essence of his being was sliced apart and forged again. His soul resonated with the alternate version of himself, and it tried to alter itself to fit the older, more stable soul. Shirou's soul mutilated itself to emulate a man whose hands could never hold anything. The young Shirou wept in utter agony as his soul fractured and rebuilt itself over and over. He was being forged into something, and he didn't know what.

Swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords and swords stabbed themselves into his soul. A thousand swords and a thousand styles and a thousand movements buried themselves into the core of his being.

He hollered like a stuck pig, crying and whimpering, his circuits cooking him from the inside out. He was steel and fire and rage and justice.

Was he a hero? Was he a boy or a man? Was he Archer? No, no, no. He wasn't Archer, he wasn't EMIYA, he was Shirou, just Shirou, only Shirou. He was the boy, not the man.

Steam poured off of him, his abused and overworked magic circuits flipped closed with a major effort of his will. He was Shirou, he was six years old, and he was himself, and no one else.

EMIYA's soul stalled. The gears in the sky slowed down. Shirou's eyes opened to see his tiny fingers digging into the dirt. He had fallen to his knees at some point. He could feel blood pouring from his nose and ears, he didn't know why.

EMIYA felt the soul of his younger self harmonize with his, reaching on a perfect reflection. He had experienced this only once before, when he fought his younger self in Unlimited Blade Works so long ago. Or was it that long ago? He could never remember. It had happened a few times by now. Had it?

The harmonization halted, Shirou's soul had stabilized. It was a reflection of his, he instinctively knew, yet different, distorted. This Shirou was so young. Younger than he's ever seen an alternate version of himself. He had no experiences at all, save the all-consuming flames.

He was a blank slate, waiting for someone to paint on. In EMIYA's world, that was Kiritsugu. Would EMIYA be this Shirou's Kiritsugu? Would this young boy take up his banner? A scary thought.

Angra Manyu was confused. He was summoned by those Einzberns, fought in a war, died (always unpleasant), woke up in a warm cup, some other stuff happened and then he woke up in the gold Archer-guy.

'Waking up possessing strange things has become a theme for me, how bizzare,' the God of All Evil thought to himself wryly.

He was angry though, he usually was. This Counter Guardian deserved his ire, he popped up right as he was getting used to this body, and he was planning on having some fun.

"Oh well, I'll just have to make due," he mutters.

EMIYA, even empowered as he is by the Counter Force, grows tired. He knows that failure is not an option, but even as he fires more and more blades of incredible quality, he knows the Gate of Babylon can outlast him. He has no Saber and no Rin to help. Only himself, and himself...

A thought occurs to him, he spares an instant to look at his younger self, hoping he can convey his idea with a glance.

His younger self is throwing up on Durandal. Lovely. EMIYA sighs and continues to fire his blades from many different directions, more tornado than storm. Getting in a melee with the body of Gilgamesh and his B-ranked strength is never a good idea. He sighs, wishing he could just lay down and die for a while.

Shirou is exhausted, he is burned, and he is angry. He glares at the man in golden armor fighting his older self. He can smell it, the taint. He knows instinctively that he is the one that caused the fire, that took everything from him, and Shirou wants justice. He sees his older self flagging, worn as he is from pushing his soul on the world and Tracing so many swords.

An idea strikes him, a foolish, reckless, mad idea.

He dives into his newly gained experience, it hurts. A deep, deep tear in his soul, he feels the stitches stretch and pop, but he finds the knowledge he needs.

"Trace, On," his childish whisper rings out, a gong on the battlefield of clashing steel.

Blue lightning runs down his arm, he feels his circuits strain, he has so little power left in him after the soul resonance. He goes further. The blue energy coalesces into a sword, Shirou is burning, Caliburn is forged again.

Shirou reinforces his arm mightily, beyond the boundary, and pitches the blade, a bar of molten gold, at the God of Darkness.

A sword is not meant to be thrown, especially one such as Caliburn, the Authority of the King. It flies true, Angra Manyu is distracted by EMIYA, but it is not enough. With a lazy flick of the wrist, Gram escapes the Gate of Babylon at terminal velocity and shears strait through the holy sword.

Shirou is dumbstruck as Caliburn dissolves into prana, he barely is able to fall out of the way of Gram in time. Shirou hurts, a deep, persistent ache that goes all the way to his bleeding Origin. He is dying, he thinks, in the soul of his future self. He feels his circuits pop and fray, he is fairly sure that is a bad thing. The remnants of his prana is leaking out of his body, his very life force, his odic supply is running dry. His last and only gambit failed, and now he is dying.

EMIYA sees his younger self fall and almost snorts again, truly they are of one mind, both doing stupidly heroic things with no concern for self. He pushes down any concern he may feel at the broken circuits in his younger self, unless he kills this god, the boy would die anyway.

Back in the burning Hell that is Fuyuki City, a sound starts. A sound that has sane men running in terror, a sound that even the Dead have learned to fear.

Kischur Zeltretch Schweinorg was giggling.