AN: Hey guys! Sorry for the month-long wait. I was in the middle of AP testing, and I had some pretty tough ones. This chapter is shorter primarily for that reason.

I was really blown away by the response on this fic, and, coupled with some interesting ideas that have been floating around in my head, Steel Savior will probably be my main focus for a while. Alongside with Chasing Dawn, a new Toaru Majutusu Index crossover, and Atlas, an upcoming Oregairu fic.

A quick note on Embers, my other fic: I'm going to really really get down and revise the entire thing. Chapter 3 for me was already a gnarly son of a gun for me to get through, and to me was really uninspiring. Not to mention some critical faults helpfully pointed by the reviewer Fierdin have made me want to edit the entire damn story.

Its actually getting frustrating, but I'm working on it. Expect a few months' delay before the next update.

Yes, I know some characters are OOC. But really, I'm trying to take the exaggerated, light-hearted, comic humor nearly completely from the DxD universe, and replace it with cold realism. Some of you have expressed doubt that the DxD universe and its constituents, such as the Church or the Devils and even Heaven can be portrayed as being dark in the first place, but I'm going to try to do so realistically.

I'll try not to go GRIMDERP, but I'm counting on you guys to tell me that!

EDIT 5-17-2015: Mixed up Bakuya and Kanshou. Fixed Asia's name. Elaborated on her whereabouts. Spelling corrections.

WARNING: Strong language and adult situations (e.g. excessive blood and gore and non-graphic/implied sexual intercourse) is/will be prevalent throughout this story. Possible triggers, such as to sexual assault, will also be present. Read at your own risk. Will diverge from canon from both universes on multiple points.

DISCLAIMER: The Fate/Stay Night Franchise belongs exclusively to Type-Moon, while the Highschool DxD Franchise belongs exclusively to Ichiei Ishibumi and Miyama-Zero. I do not own any elements from either franchise that have been incorporated in my fanfiction.

Although I know it's unfair, I reveal myself one mask at a time."

-Stephen Dunn

STEEL SAVIOR

Chapter 2: The Sword Unsheathed

He was a mystery, she thought to herself on the first day she met him. A boy, no, a man, who somehow carried an impossibility of contradictions with him.

A hard, lined face with soft amber eyes. A lover's touch with the calloused hand of a warrior. An unassuming, plain air with a sharp, calculating mind. An excellent sense of compassion and morals with an ambitious, dangerous, intrinsic belief hidden far beneath.

Exactly everything about him was an enigma, a riddle that could not easily be solved.

And she detested riddles with a passion.

For her, cold logic and dispassionate rationality had always been her trump card. Impersonal detachment from the world allowed her to escape her arranged marriage, enabled her to lead her Peerage effectively, and uphold her position as the heir to the Sitri clan.

A king, her father had told her when she was still young, when she was still innocent and happy, ignorant of the world around her, must always act alone. And in acting alone, accepting everything alone.

Back then, she did not know the meaning of his cryptic words, merely smiling up at his grave face and nodding affirmatively before asking her father to play with her.

Now, her father's words rung like a bell in her mind, not simply advice from a father to his daughter, but a way of life as the primary successor of the Sitri family.

For any success, something had to be sacrificed. For any gain to be made, something had to be lost. For any victory, something had to perish.

The Law of Equivalent Exchange, her father had called it.

When the duties as the Sitri heiress fell upon her, she took it without complaint, shedding her brief childhood in favor of the authoritarian persona demanded of her. When she became the Student Council President, she broke her friendships in favor of professional relationships from which order could be better maintained. When she became the King of her Peerage, she sacrificed her emotions in favor of the icy grasp of rationality that befitted a true king.

"The Ice Queen," many called her behind her back, despite her lacking her sister's proficiency in winter magic. "The Snow Princess of Kuoh" and "Kuoh's Frigid Ace."

Sometimes, hearing such names stung lightly, and, on the rare occasion she felt sentimental, she would flip through her old photobooks, reminiscing of happier days when she still was a child.

But most of the time she remembered who she was, and what she represented.

She was a creature of the never-ending expanse of water, wielder of the indomitable power that could cut through all obstacles in its path, from walls of granite to towers of iron. Calm, cool, and collected, she was always right, and would always succeed, no matter how momentous a task. Hailed as one of the greatest geniuses of her current generation, she was venerated and honored wherever she went, serving as a role model for her underclassmen and a extraordinarily talented pupil and successor to her elders.

She was Sitri Sona, the sole heiress of the powerful Sitri Clan of the Ars Goetia, one of the 72 Pillars of the original Devil Families.

There was a secret lying within Emiya Shirou, and she would be damned if she wouldn't be the first to uncover it.

Unfortunately, she thought to herself as she looked at the strange red and silver-haired man in front of her, it seemed as if Gremory Rias had beat her to it.

Devils, they called themselves.

He stood in the Student Council Room, an aloof and emotionless mask locked on his face, towering far above all the others, with the notable exception of Tsubaki Shinra, in the room.

Many familiar, and and many more unfamiliar faces were scattered throughout the room, each with a wide range of expression on their faces. Most of them seemed to be cautious and wary, others merely bored, and a few even outright hostile.

Everyone except Issei, that is, who wore a brilliant grin that was so wide he thought it threatened to split the pervert's face apart.

They were also all members of the Occult Research Club and the Student Council, he thought to himself, amused.

He frankly wasn't surprised. The constant smell of an enormous variety of elements, each as potent as some of the more powerful Mysteries back in his world, permeated the entirety of both the Student Council Room and the Occult Research Club Room thoroughly.

Unfortunately, he could already sense the invisible forms of dangerous...tools, for lack of a better word, that seemed to lie on the next plane of existence, each of which he felt could easily be used as a weapon.

He didn't blame their tension.

He presumed he was somewhat of a intimidating sight, with his white body armor and, restrained although its power was, the potent blue holy shroud wrapped about him. His twin blades of white and black were sheathed on his back, yet remained in easy reach of his hands, their protective intent of him suffusing aggressively throughout the cramped room.

It probably would have been even more impressive sight if only the blonde girl he head saved - Argento Asia, she had introduced herself as - hadn't had her head buried in his side, arms wrapped around his waist, sobbing so violently that her tears had thoroughly soaked through his armor.

The priestess had clung onto him immediately after she had awoken, and had adamantly refused to let go since, despite his best efforts.

Second after second ticked by. Minute after minute trickled away. Hour after hour passed.

She had been attached to his side ever since, nearly half a day in total, and as he did not have the heart to push her off of him, he let her stay.

Savior, she had called him.

It was, if anything, a nice sounding name.

"Emiya-san, can you please pay attention?" Sona's voice sharply cut past the hazy nebula that enshrouded his mind. "I was just asking you a question."

"Sorry, kaichou." He bowed his head in obligatory deference, ignoring the thick tension in the air. "My concentration slipped for a moment. What were you asking?"

She rubbed her forehead in a seemingly frustrated gesture, sighing. "One more time, Emiya-san. Who are you? Or rather, what are you?"

What was he?

Instantly, a thousand answers crossed his mind, each discarded in favor of the next.

What could he say? He could quite easily called anything but anyone, so variegated and diverse were his activities. Curing children of sporadic Ebola outbreaks one moment and butchering droves of Boko Haram the next. Evacuating Romanian orphans from their prisons, and assassinating their captors merely hours later. A ruthless mundane soldier in one world, and an equally ruthless practitioner of Magecraft in another.

An answer finally came to mind, perhaps the simplest yet vaguest possible, and one that would make Rin huff in annoyance.

"A magician."

Sona's eyebrows rose in incredulity. "A mere magician would not be able to defeat four Fallen Angels without so much suffering a scratch."

"A powerful magician, then," he said placatingly, an amused smile crossing his face at the annoyed huff Sona gave out. "Powerful and talented."

"Someone's confident," she shot back, and he smiled.

She was like Rin in that respect. Sarcastic and trigger-happy with insults, with a sharp tongue and wit to those she deemed worthy.

"Not confident. Merely self-assured." He found himself enjoying their banter, and slowly, he felt the mood in the room become lighter, the tension relenting ever so slightly.

Of course, it wasn't to last.

"A smarmy Exorcist we have here, I suppose?" a voice asked, tense and somewhat hostile, immediately restoring the sense of unease that had permeated throughout the room moments before. "An agent of the Church, come to do their bidding like a dog would?"

The voice belonged to Yuuto Kiba, better known as the "Prince of Kuoh." The ever-present smile that graced his face was now replaced by a hostile glower, and the blonde's eyebrows furrowed into a hateful, baleful glare that was so very unlike him.

He had never hard such vehemence from the Prince before, and he wondered what experiences had instilled such a deep hatred of the Church within the other boy.

Nevertheless, he had to answer.

"Do you think the Church hire a magician, a practitioner of the pagan arts?" He asked lightly, the casual tone that he had unconsciously picked up from Rin making his statement bitingly mocking, yet subtle all the same. "In case you do not know, the Christian faith has always, until recent times, taken an intolerant stance upon other faiths and practices that do not overlap with their own."

Inwardly, he smiled. That had been somewhat of a lie. He had worked alongside Ciel for many years, and their partnership had always been full of camaraderie and genuine respect. Their partnership had been so fruitful that he was eventually given the title of an Honorary Executor and gifted with a valuable Holy Shroud.

The first one she had offered him had been red, however, he remembered with a grimace. As red as his shroud had been, almost as if it had been washed in the blood of thousands of innocent and guilty parties alike.

Even though many years had passed since the War, the words of his counterpart still haunted him to the present, despite the fact that they had both come to the same resolution.

A demonic blade suddenly warped into Kiba's hand, and a second later, he found the tip of the sword at his throat, tickling his skin.

To an onlooker, it would have been an impressive feat, but to his experienced eyes, it was amateurish in nearly all senses.

The speed of formation was slow and cumbersome, the swing of the other boy's arm inefficient and clumsy, relying on the seemingly superior physiology of the devils, and his technique mediocre at best.

He could've easily blocked such a slow and telegraphed movement, but he chose not to. It would've most likely been an excuse for the room to break out into an all-out brawl, and nothing but spilt blood could be gained from such a confrontation.

"Don't mock me!" the blonde boy snarled. "No other Factions wear the Holy Shrouds! Tell me, who are you, and what is your purpose here? Tell me NOW!"

A tense silence fell over the room, and he could already see the other devils stiffen, readying their so-called "Sacred Gears" and magic in preparation for a full-on, to-the-death fight.

He sighed, holding out his right hand non-threateningly.

Perhaps a demonstration would do?

"If I may?" he asked Sona, and the raven-haired beauty nodded curtly, giving her tacit approval.

Deep within the recesses of his mind, a nameless sword was recalled, its blueprint rapidly processed and activated within a hundredth of a second. The blade was nigh-instantaneously formed in his hand a moment later, its edges tinged with dark, malicious wisps of Prana warping off the length of the sword in malignant waves.

A high-level Mystic Code, he recalled. Infused with demonic energy from the brutal sacrifices of hundreds of peasants in the Andes.

He remembered the bodies clearly. Their limp, dried corpses, hearts torn out, eyes harvested, tongues cut, their skin ripped off their bodies. Desiccated bodies thrown in massive heaps, slaughtered and methodically cut apart as if they were merely fodder. It had been one of his first missions from Clock Tower, and while Rin had thrown up immediately, spilling her freshly-eaten lunch onto the muddy ground, he merely stood there, a silent, trembling rage enveloping his the entirety of his senses.

When he finally confronted the Apostle herself, he had impaled her with an assortment of four dozen holy blades. He purposefully made them weak enough so that she remained alive, albeit in agonizing pain.

Her screams had rung continually throughout the night for hours until they were finally silenced, the sound of metal cleaving through flesh replacing the horrid screeches.

The villagers had heard the pained shrieks that pierced the night air, and when he returned with the dried blood covering his clothing, he had received yet another nickname.

El Cazador de Pesadillas. The Hunter of Nightmares.

Fondly, he swung the blade in intricate patterns, admiring the beauty of its craftsmanship while detesting it for its previous owner's actions.

"Sword Birth?" Kiba breathed. "No, but it cannot be..."

The room turned and stared at him, as if waiting for an explanation.

He shook his head disappointedly. This was not turning out well whatsoever.

"I have the ability to...use magical artifacts," he said slowly. "Whether they are of holy or demonic power, it matters not. That is my skill as a magician."

An exasperated, almost presumptuous sigh entered his ears, and briefly, slight annoyance flared within him.

He was being judged, as usual.

"Emiya-san," Sona pushed up her glasses, light somehow glinting off their reflective surface. He idly wondered how she managed to pull it off so casually. "What you just performed was a Sacred Gear known as Sword Birth, as Kiba just mentioned. Sacred Gears cannot have more than one alignment. What you are suggesting is a technical impossibility."

He shook his head firmly. "It is not a Sacred Gear. That I am sure of."

She glared arrogantly, and he had to avoid rolling his eyes. "Emiya-san, I underst-"

"Sona." The soft voice of Rias Gremory floated over Sona's, and the black-haired devil glared momentarily at the President of the Occult Research Club, before nodding curtly. "Thank you."

The thanks was empty. Everyone in the room could feel the resentment that emanated from Sona, only adding to the stifling, sweaty tension in the room.

"Emiya-san?" The soft voice came over him, almost hypnotizing in effect, but he shook it off with ease, barely paying attention to it.

He nodded once, indicating his approval, and she spoke.

"Are you certain that your 'magic' isn't simply the unconscious channeling of your Sacred Gear? After all, there are many humans born with Sacred Gears outside of institutions such as the Church. You may simply be one of these so-called 'unclaimed' Sacred Gear users."

It most definitely wasn't, but to explain was to reveal his secrets, and obviously, that was to be avoided.

Then how to answer?

He thought for a moment. "This...Sword Birth that you mentioned before. What exact abilities does that Sacred Gear entail?"

"The ability to create and store swords with a demonic alignment," Kiba replied, eyes flicking rapidly about him, almost appraisingly.

The demonic blade dissipated into red motes of light, scattering in the air before disappearing almost reluctantly.

Once more, he delved into his internal armory, pulling out another blade, this one of holy make, and carrying fond memory.

A moment later, and one of Ciel's seemingly limitless Black Keys lay on his palm, its blade reverberating violently, white-hot, as it sought to destroy the heretical beings it felt in its presence.

It seemed that even across worlds, Black Keys were still Black Keys, and still looked to fulfill their purpose as weapons to destroy the blasphemous and bring salvation to the believers.

Hypocritically dogmatic. The Church had killed as many of the innocent as heretics their own, and slaughtered hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of people in their pursuit of what they viewed as a better future. All the while working alongside the Association and Atlas to reach the Root.

He could only hope that this world's version of the Church was more benevolent, but somehow, he already knew it was a false hope.

Slowly, he glanced at the awe-struck looks about him, hiding the slight displeasure of having his hand revealed so early.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked softly, yet his message carried throughout the silent room.

A soft voice shattered the awed silence.

"Emiya-san..."

His eyes narrowed at Sona's inquisitive, uplifted tone, all traces of previous annoyance forgotten, and he moved to answer before she asked.

"Would you-"

"No." he said with hard tone. "I will not join your Peerage. I appreciate the offer, but my word is final. And no," he turned to Rias. "I will not join yours either."

The two devils looked at him sheepishly.

"If I may ask why?" Sona spoke quietly.

"You do realize that my ability to use holy artifacts would be severely restricted should I become a devil," he pointed out. "That would be a significant loss in investment on your part should I join either of your Peerages."

Violet eyes narrowed speculatively, staring obtrusively at him, before their owner countered. "That is a problem that I should concern myself with, not you. What I am asking you is, why do you not want to join my Peerage?"

He sighed.

He hadn't wanted to give a detailed explanation, but under the scrutiny of seventeen-odd armed devils, he had little choice.

"This Peerage system is far too reminiscent of medieval society with its feudal system for my liking." He ignored the offended look on the two Kings' faces. "The pieces seem to be designed as so that the members of the Peerages would be enslaved under the will of their King and forced to their bidding, no matter how evil the act. Simply put, I view the Peerage system as merely eternal slavery in exchange for a new chance at life."

"But-!"

He held up a hand. "I understand that both of you treat your, for lack of a better term, subjects justly and fairly, but there are far too many ways to abuse this. For example," he pointed at Issei. "If Hyoudou-kouhai were to become a King of his peerage, it would be highly likely that sexual exploitation and senseless, depraved abuse would be commonplace within it." He ignored Issei's heated protests. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if such rampant, barbarian depravity is already present."

Both Kings winced.

He narrowed his eyes. "It is, isn't it?"

Neither party spoke, and it was only many seconds later that one of them deigned a response.

"There are sporadic cases," Sona confessed. "However!" she hastily tacked on. "Such unsavory acts are few and far between, and are dealt with harshly and punitively. I promise..." she glanced at Rias, who nodded, before continuing. "We promise that if you join either of our Peerages, we will treat you with the respect and honor that you deserve."

He found himself nodding.

They undoubtedly would. Neither Sona nor Rias were genuinely evil devils - he could tell that much - but rather almost human-like entities that had a profound moral compass and sense of personal ideals.

In fact, he considered them to be good people. He considered the entirety of both their Peerages to be good people. He had always believed in the best in all, whether human or Magus, Apostle or Phantasmal Beast, Angel or Devil, although he remained at all times ready to cut them down.

But regardless, he would not accept. Humanity had always been one of his most defining traits, and without it, not only would he lose his sense of purpose, but he would never reach Avalon, never reach her and all the others that waited faithfully for him on the other side.

He sighed wearily. "As generous as your offers are, and as virtuous as well as upstanding people I know you two to be, I simply cannot accept this offer."

The mutterings in the room grew louder, until they were silenced by a wave from a pale, deceptively delicate hand.

"Then why not?" Rias challenged. "Why can't you join either of our Peerages? What's so important that prevents you from becoming a devil?"

He smiled sadly, and for a moment, he did not stand in a club room surrounded by devils, but knelt on a hill of swords, with the corpse of a young girl in his arms, facing an impostor.

"I made a promise."

He first heard the dank clang of steel knocking against the granite beneath his own feet.

Then came the soft lilt of a tattered metal cloak as is whistled through the cold air. Then the creaking of metal joints as steel moved past steel.

He sighed. It wasn't often it manifested itself directly into the physical plane.

Silently, he turned to face the figure that had stopped behind him, left only to wonder the catalyst for his presence.

"My lord."

A black helm, formed gracelessly from the bent blades of swords, crowned a massive, hulking body. Its armor was made from the faces of blades, woven together with the edges of daggers and the hilts of swords. Its flesh was similarly formed simply an amorphous mesh of blades, each weapon chaotically placed in a seemingly random pattern that somehow gave form to a beast. An aura of pure hate, pure wrath, emanated clearly from its body, formed by the coagulation and concentration of demonic-aligned weapons into a single, forged body. Black tendrils of Prana floated almost lazily about its suit of crudely formed plate, wisps of magical energy shooting through the innumerable minute gaps within the armor and body that lay beneath.

Sheathed at its side was a blade that he had grown to dislike, if only for its origins.

Clarent.

The blade used by the traitor Mordred to mortally wound Arturia at the battle of Camlann. Filled with rage, resentment, an all-consuming hate for his lover, it was once a sword of peace, the literal manifestation of the utopia that both he and she, and thousands of other heroes, pursued without end.

It was always the hope of the people that one day Arturia could forever sheathe Excalibur, a sword of war, and instead take up Clarent instead, a peaceful blade that could represent the ascension of Britain into a peaceful age of splendor and cultural achievement.

Unlike Excalibur, which had remained at her side at all times, Clarent hung conspicuously in the throne room, a constant reminder of the dream that Arturia and her Knights of the Round Table searched, fought, and bled for.

Clarent had served throughout Arturia's reign as a knighting sword and other peaceful ceremonies, and its virgin blade remained untouched with the unholy elixir of blood.

Until Mordred stole it.

That day, on the very hill of Camlann, it was stained and corrupted forever, far beyond cleansing. The blade that was never meant to draw blood witnessed the worst betrayal possible, turned against its Master, who had forged it in hope of peace, and used to not only mortally wound her but destroy the chance of her beautiful ideal ever being realized.

Now it lay in his armory, a twisted, perverted vestige of its former glory. It pained him to look at it, and the few times he had forced himself to use it, it had made him physically sick.

But it could only simply be attributed to his low ranked luck that it had appeared, sheathed crudely on the side of the dark figure that knelt before him merely weeks before.

He spoke.

"I did not call for you, Wrath."

"No, you did not." it affirmed, still kneeling.

A heavy silence fell between them, and for a few minutes, neither spoke.

The figure broke it first, his metallic voice grating almost painfully. "I came to request something of you."

Interest piqued him, and a curt order slipped from his lips. "Continue."

The figure appeared to stumble over its words, hesitant. "I know not how."

"Then do try."

The curt, almost flippant answer quickly restored the silence, more oppressive than it was before.

It was another minute before it responded.

"My lord, we feel that you are improperly handling the battles that you fight. Everything from your reckless swordplay to your insistence on fighting alone. You are pushing yourself far beyond your limits, and it is not healthy."

An amused smile crossed his lips. "And you elected to tell me, Wrath? Why, I didn't know you cared."

"Of course not," it vehemently denied, but both knew he came of his own volition. "I was chosen by the other five to. I am merely performing my duty."

"If you say so." He smirked, and silence fell between them, not awkward, but not comfortable either.

The sun shone a brilliant vermilion in the darkening sky, was if it were an ominous portent of the future. Idly, he wondered what would come next.

He could only hope it would not be as stained as the landscape before him, bathed in a vivid red that reminded him all too much of blood.

"What of the girl? And the other?" it asked. "What will you do with them?"

He grimaced. He had sent Asia back to his small apartment, which was now cramped due to the sudden influx of new residents. Three people, two of them freeloaders, would be difficult to feed and clothe, not to mention the exorbitant increase in the water bill that would undoubtedly follow.

How he would find the funds to support them, he did not know how, but he nevertheless resolved to help them.

It was, after all, what he did. To help all people, former enemies or not, in any way he could.

The figure suddenly sneered, breaking him out of his reverie. "Surely you aren't thinking of keeping them around, my lord. One of them tried to kill you, and the other clings to you like a pathetic brat would a safety blanket."

He deftly changed the subject, unwilling to answer his subject's accusation.

"You have not stated your request."

He felt the glare his vassal gave him, before it obliged almost sulkily, its low, menacing voice rasping from deep within its metallic body.

"Call for us, my lord."

The blunt statement did not come unexpected. For weeks he had felt their boredom, their annoyance, and their worry, and had anticipated their inevitable request.

But such emotions did not explain their willingness to serve. After all, in essence that's all they were: Manifestation of emotion and ideals, brought to life by his will, resurrected by the strength of his soul and the weakness of Gaia.

"Why?" he asked.

The figure was still knelt, bending subserviently beneath his will, but its voice was resolute, unyielding in its proposition.

"You called for us from the hill, my lord. Do not forget that. We have sworn to be your sword, your shield, in times of peace, and times of war. You are our liege, we, your vassals. Why do you not use us like you would our individual constituents? Why do you not lead us like the king of swords that you are?"

"There is no use for any of you in times of peace," he shot back. "And war is merely one of the many paths that may lie ahead of us in the future. What use is there for you?"

"Even the best of blades will dull with the passage of time," it said reproachfully. "You, of all people, should know that best." It nodded towards the magnificent sight that beheld them. "Besides, war is coming. It is even clearly written in the light of that dying sun. Are you so selfish to keep the decoctions of blood and fire to yourself?"

He grimaced, and once more silence fell between them, but this time, it was not merely neutral, but rather stifling and uncomfortable, despondent and heavy.

The blood red sun. It was both a symbol of Japan and the sign of bloody chaos, a prophecy bathed in the fires of battle and the forge of anarchy.

He had never taken such natural occurrences as prophecy. The red sun was caused, as determined by scientists years before, by the greater penetrating power of red-tinted photons through the atmosphere due to their longer wavelength, and the subsequent intensification of their effect near sunset. He had never believed otherwise.

Yet he couldn't help but wonder what was to come. The revelation of an entire myth system based in the twenty-first century, with Angels, Fallen, and Devils running amuck throughout the world, was disconcerting at the very least, and given the tensions he had inferred between the Devils and the Church, war seemed to be on the verge of breaking out.

The spilling of blood, as he had proved merely a day before, really was to be inevitable, despite for his wishes otherwise.

"I shall see," he replied, after a long moment of thought. He averted his eyes from the figure that knelt before him and towards the strangely dull rays of sunset that lay scattered across the horizon like fresh dew upon the tips of withered grass.

Despite his efforts, he still felt the dark smile engraved on his servant's face, and the twisted voice of metal crept into his ear insidiously, like an unwanted thought.

"You always do, don't you, my lord? But that is not what matters. The real question is, what do you see?"

He turned away fully, and the heavy presence dissipated, leaving only him to be bathed by the soft warmth of the red sun.

The first to fall was Dohaneesk.

There was no warning, no sign of imminent attack, no trace of movement. No indication that a fight was even supposed to begin.

The man simply disappeared in a gust of wind moments before Raynare's spear hit him, the weapon sinking effortlessly shaft-deep into the stone floor.

A gurgle startled them out of the reverie, and they could only watch in utter shock as Dohaneesk coughed out blotches of crimson blood, a blade as black as the night driven sickeningly through his chest.

Not a second later, another blade, as white as pure virgin snow, swished almost silently through the air, gruesomely decapitating the male Fallen, a caricatured expression of surprise still frozen on his face.

When it emerged from the other side of Dohaneesk's neck, it was no longer untouched, but painted a vivid red, the new coat of paint dripping almost hungrily from its edge.

A shower of gore fell over them, and the light spray of blood on their faces finally spurred them into action, each desperately scrambling away from the man as he approached them at a speed unmatched even by the elite lightning corps of Angels.

She was not fast enough.

A searing, hot pain flashed across her back and alongside her wings, eliciting a pained cry from her lips.

Almost disdainfully, she saw the man in blue and white backhand her, and she vaguely felt the shattering of her bones as her limp body smashed heavily into the ground.

Her vision blackened from the pain.

"MITTELT!" she heard Raynare cry out faintly.

She smiled sadly. It was to no avail. Already she could see the man descending from the Heavens as if he were a vengeful Archangel, twin blades raised high in preparation to deliver his merciless judgement upon her.

Regret.

Regret for all she had done, all the evil she had committed, all the actions she had taken, all the things she wished she could do, wished she could have done.

That was perhaps all she had left, in the end. Just the memories of her broken, fractured dreams, trod on upon the uncaring machinations of others.

A bitter tear trickled down her cheek, and, ignoring the burning, fiery pain that spread across her body, she closed her eyes, resigned to her bloody fate.

"BASTARD!"

Her eyes flickered open briefly, fighting against the darkness that encroached upon her vision.

Another tear slipped down her face, but it was not of happiness, but rather of despair once more.

Kalawarner stood in front of her protectively, twin spears clutched tightly in her hands, defiantly facing the blue and white clad man.

"Run..." she whispered in a croaking voice, ignoring the itch of her dry throat. "Please run Kalawarner. You don't stand a chance."

She felt Kalawarner smile grimly, and the other Fallen replied. "Not with you still here, Mittelt. I'll stay with you until the very end. Besides, they didn't call me the Mistress of the Wind for no reason."

"The Mistress of the Wind. " When Kalawarner had still been an Angel, serving under the forces of Michael, she had been famed for her skills in dual-spearsmanship, so excelling in the art that she was able to rival even the Great Archangels in terms of ability alone.

But even she stood no chance against the man in front of them. She and the man that stood in front of her knew that, but Kalawarner herself did not seem worried, only enraged and vengeful.

Why? Could she not see?

This man was something else.

There was simply an unknown element to the man, something that she could not discern entirely, that made him so deadly, and made their fight so drastically one-sided. His stance was almost informal, without the set, pretentious form favored by most East Asian sword-styles, nor the cautious, forward stance of Western swordsmanship. It was devoid of any sort of pride, the sole trace emotion within the entirety of his form lying in the beautiful, symmetrical weapons that were clasped in each hand.

His blades were of master craftsmanship, at least as perfect if not more so than then the weapons of Heaven themselves. Stained with dark blood they were, they were nevertheless beautiful, a sense of harmony not in war but rather in companionship exuded from merely staring at them.

Yet for all such beauty, they could easily slice through flesh and bone as if it were merely butter, cutting down threats to their wielder in a malevolent, vicious manner that was so unlike the almost peaceful, tranquil aura they gave off.

A white cloth of some unknown make covered his torso and legs, tapering away at two steel boots. Wrapped around him like an overcoat was a powerful Holy Shroud, a calming azure cloth that was sprayed lightly with recently-spilled blood.

Was he an Exorcist? An agent of Heaven? A member of the Church? What was he that made them seem so weak?

She pondered as the man and Kalawarner clashed, each idea thrown out for a more ludicrous one.

She had just thought of the idea that the man was magician ally of justice hired by humanity when a shrill cry of pain broke her out of her dazed reverie. Fighting the hazy nebula that threatened to overcome her vision, she turned her head in time to see the man's white blade carve a deep furrow in Kalawarner's arm, sending a spray of blood through the air.

Briefly, she thought to help her fellow Fallen, and tried to move her legs.

Tried to.

Angrily, she looked down at her legs, screaming silently for them to move so she could help her comrade. Help Kalawarner, who had found her crying in the lifeless stone village onto which she was cast away from Heaven. Who had clothed and bathed her, despite her wounds. Who had given her shelter and a place to belong. Who had forged a friendship that saved her. Who had shielded her in her time of need.

She wished she hadn't looked.

Instead of the long, smooth, yet muscles legs that graced all Angels, former or not, there was merely a mess of flesh and blood. Shards of bone poked out through a landscape of ripped muscle, disfigured ivory towers scattered across a red sea. Her porcelain skin was now nonexistent, replaced by uneven hills of upturned nerve endings and dislodged tendons. Her right leg was almost completely torn off at the kneecap, only a thin strip of flesh attaching it to her thigh. Her left wasn't in a much better state, instead twisted in a sickeningly odd fashion, a sharp shard of her shin extending from her broken skin like a monolith of white marble speckled with splotches of red paint.

She retched.

It was then she realized the enormity of the situation, the rage that arose from the helplessness of her position, that roused her normally cathartic psyche into a state of hapless fury.

But what could she do?

She could only watch helplessly as one of Kalawarner's spears shattered into a thousand motes of yellow light, only gaze on the man's blades flew faster and faster, drawing dozens upon dozens of light, yet debilitating wounds.

Nerves were sliced. Vital capillaries bled. Muscles severed.

Second after second passed, and slowly, Kalawarner's defense began to collapse in upon itself. Gashes becoming larger and larger, blood flowing freely as if they were torrid streams joining into mighty rivers of red.

Only the ringing clash of blades and the grating clang of metal upon metal could be heard, until, placed under repeated, intense stress, Kalawarner's final light spear groaned, before it too gave way to the ungodly force of the man's arms.

Kalawarner barely had time to scream before the man's swords swung forward in a final, eerie arc towards her torso.

The crunch of blade penetrating flesh, organ, and bone silenced the shrill cry of desperation.

Silence fell over the church, and, after a brief pause, the blades were suddenly, and violently, retracted, sending a shower of blood and gore flying through the air, bathing the surroundings in it.

A red Communion was invoked in the church, blood and flesh imbibed by those in the presence of the violent sacrifice.

The man's steel boot smashed into Kalawarner's chest a moment later, sending the half-dead Fallen soaring almost comically through the air, crumpling in a broken form as she slumped against the massive stone wall that lay opposite of her.

For a moment, she thought the other Fallen had died, and the gut-wrenching fear of loneliness rose up in her stomach.

However, to her relief, a small, ragged cough erupted from her comrade's mouth, spilling a mixture of blood and mucus onto the ground. Despite the pathetic, lowly state of her comrade, a smile erupted on her face, and the tiny spark of hope within her flared brightly.

But her relief turned into horror and the vestiges of hope were extinguished brutally as the sound of steel on stone resonated throughout the church.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

She saw Kalawarner lift her head at the sound of the metal boots coming closer and closer, and for the first time, saw true fear in her fellow Fallen's dark eyes.

The man stopped in front of the Fallen, staring at her broken form, his steel boots stained red with the blood that flowed from her body. In a soft voice, almost as if he were pained, he asked a single question, coalescing in her ear like the cursed snake of the Garden.

"Are you afraid?"

Kalawarner's last pained, desperate screams ripped through the air, resonating throughout the church and echoing off the walls.

Blades of white and black glinted in the fading light, and she averted her eyes from the scene, covering her ears in a vain attempt to block out the sickening sound of metal splitting flesh.

She sighed, staring at the rays of the setting sun that flashed through the single remaining, unbroken, stained glass window, scattering color all over the church as if each orb were precious gems.

If anything, it was a beautiful day to die.

They too, like he, had bodies of blades.

It was by mere chance that he had formed them. Beings composed wholly of the weapons in his armory, emerging from the shadows of the hill of swords, kneeling before him.

Sword sentience, the ability of sword to almost feel or perceive, coupled with Gaia's weakened influence, seemed to have manifested them onto the planet. Without the constant degradation of the world, blades of similar alignment began to fuse together, blade after blade layering itself one over another to form their bodies, their personalities combining to form an idea to which they were all common.

Justice versus Wrath.

Discipline versus Lust.

Humility versus Envy.

Three virtues pitted against three vices.

Three entities of light and three entities of dark.

Three Angelic ideals clashing with three Demonic ones, each pair two sides of the very same coin.

Their summoning should have been an impossibility. Literal contradictions to the laws of reality itself. Something not alive could not become alive. Something that was inanimate could not become animate. Something that could not think could not become cognizant. Something that was forged by the hand of man could not become consciously sentient.

Yet it happened, somehow. For swords were forged with purpose, and when the blade arose to fame within the annals of history, they became a representation of that purpose.

Blades created for the pursuit of Justice. Of Revenge. Of Peace. Of War. Of Simplicity. Of Ornateness.

When placed together, swords brought together by the same purpose, by the same idea for which they were built, their power began to multiply.

Keris Mpu Gandring fused with Tyrfing. Crocea Mors with Tizona. Sword upon spear upon axe upon halberd. Arrow upon dagger upon shield upon dirk. Metal meshed, coagulated, bonded, and molded.

Built upon another, they became the epitome of the idea they were built for, their entire personalities warped together to form a cohesive unit.

All they knew was themselves. Justice knew none else than Justice, Wrath none other than Wrath. Discipline nothing but Discipline, Lust none but Lust. Humility none but Humility, Envy naught but Envy.

It was almost overpowering to a human, with the potency of the emotions they could induce. Wrath cast a domineering hatred upon his mind like a dark cloud, Discipline an intolerant attitude to the slightest faux pás, Lust powerful feelings of attraction and desire.

But to him, it was nothing. He had a will of steel, unbending to everyone and everything, despite the potency of his sentiments, and enclosed the six into an insurmountable cage from which he could focus their power and amplify their intensity.

He was not a slave to emotion, nor was he prey to the passions and fanciful flights that defined normal men. He was something greater than such, for his body, while still human, was made out of blades.

So when he called for them from the shadows of the hill of swords, they bowed, subservient to his iron will.

White and blue exploded into existence, tendrils of energy wrapping about his body, caressing him like a lover.

Compound, carbon-based body armor, as pure and brilliant freshly-fallen snow, fused onto his torso, spiraling down to cover his legs, burnished white steel boots forming from Prana onto his feet. A blue Holy Shroud wound itself around his shoulders and back, flowing down his body as if it were an overcoat.

At the same time, two blades force themselves out of his inner world and into the realm of existence, their edges gleaming dangerously in the setting sun.

Kanshou and Bakuya. Two blades, forged by Gan Jiang and Mo Ye, empowered by their sacrifice in the flames of the forge, their names ascending into legend.

His Prana flowed through them instantly after they were formed, Reinforcing each blade to highest level that could be attained. The keen edge became even keener, the bonds between the metal even stronger, the cores becoming even stiffer.

And then he moved.

The Prana gathered in his legs suddenly discharged completely, propelling him forward at an obscene speed.

In under half a second, he reached his first enemy, the bearded male Fallen who floated, wholly unaware of his presence, ten feet in the air.

He shook his head sadly. The man wouldn't even have time to contemplate his own mortality.

Kanshou sung as it whipped through the air, entering the man's back with a sickening crunch, and exiting out the man's chest, its black blade dripping with dark crimson liquid.

A soft gurgle escaped the man's throat, slight speckles of blood falling gracelessly from his mouth, before he swung Bakuya, its pure white blade stained a brilliant, vivid red under the glowing light as it passed through the hapless man's neck.

When it pulled free, the decapitated head fell almost anticlimatically, the body collapsing like a puppet with cut strings with a dull, sickening thump.

A few moments later, the corpse exploded into feathers, nothing remaining except a cloud of floating black, and the flowing blood that literally bathed the floor in red.

The twin swords of black and white spun around in his hand as he shifted to a new position, poising himself to leap at the next target, a young blonde girl that seemed not a day older than twelve.

She, too, seemed unaware of his actions, merely staring in blank shock at the mass of feathers that slowly floated aimlessly through the air.

He ignored the guilt that ate at him.

It was one thing to die in horrid pain, gazing at the face of an enemy as he stabbed you through the chest. It was one thing to fall from an unsurvivable height, staring at the sky far above as you contemplated your own mortality.

But to not be even aware of death as it approached you, not even given the chance to think before your life was ended in a haze of pain and a spray of blood...

That was the worst fate of them all.

"MITTELT!" The panicked voice of the first Fallen pierced the air sharply, and he tsked lightly as his target threw herself to the side sharply in a desperate attempt to avoid the curved path of his blades.

She was too late.

But her efforts were not in vain. Instead of his blades connecting with the flesh of her neck, which would have killed her instantly, they merely severed the thick cords of muscle that formed the base of her dark black wings.

An inhuman scream rung through the air, resonating the very air around him, but he paid it no mind.

Grimly, he turned in midair, manipulating the air currents around him to propel him forward once more. The blonde Fallen faced him, a twisted, pained expression warping her child-like face.

Viciously, he backhanded her, trickles of blood erupting like geysers as her nose broke onto his armor. The girl literally flew into the ground, colliding with the floor with such force that a small cloud of debris was thrown up into the air, obscuring the scene for a moment.

This time, there was no scream.

He landed effortlessly onto the floor a moment later, his eyes immediately focusing on the broken, barely cognizant form that lay before him. His hands immediately tightened on his twin swords, and, without hesitation, he charged forwards, blades already swinging forwards to meet the skin of her neck and remove her life.

He didn't hesitate, even when he saw the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

There were no regrets. He couldn't regret, otherwise he would break. He had to keep on going forward, uncaring of the past, unaware of loss and gain, or he would become the very man that he had sworn to never become, long ago on that hill of swords.

His eyes snapped back open, revitalized, and his blades continued their deadly paths that crossed at the junction of the Fallen's neck.

A sharp, enraged cry pierced the still air.

"BASTARD!"

Sudden movement caught his eye, and he quickly snapped back Kanshou into a guard position as a rogue spear flitted from the side, aimed his exposed torso.

Five more strikes were caught in his defense in quick succession, and on the sixth, his adversary locked blades with him, challenging him to a game of strength.

Long blue hair filled his vision, and his eyes met the fierce gaze of the other Fallen. Two spears were clasped tightly in either hand, their ornate blades held in equilibrium with his own twin swords.

A dual-wielder of spears? His eyes narrowed, and almost immediately Diarmuid Ua Duibhne immediately came to mind, a near doppelganger of his Lancer that held two spears, one a familiar, if less potent crimson, and the other a shorter, brilliant gold.

But the woman held two identical weapons, the same in every respect, that pushed aggressively against his own, and the image from his world disappeared, replaced by a mere mimicry of the great human hero.

His eyes absentmindedly scanned the weapons that were locked against his, and slowly, he let a grim smile form on his face.

Mistress of the Wind?

He had never minded a challenge.

"Run..." he heard the cracked whisper of the heavily injured blonde Fallen curl into his ear. "Please run Kalawarner. You don't stand a chance."

"Not with you still here, Mittelt. I'll stay with you until the very end." the one in front of him said, resigned yet determined. "Besides, they didn't call me the Mistress of the Wind for no reason."

Brave.

He could respect that.

Ever so slightly, he tipped his head to his foe, acknowledging her valiance. It wasn't often he fought others with such loyalty between comrades, but when he did, at least some respect could be shown to them. They deserved it, fighting against someone who had long ago transcended the bounds of humanity, and now walked amongst the gods of legend.

He wasn't surprised, however, when she didn't return the gesture.

A mighty shove pushed him backwards from the heavily injured blonde, and, not given a moment's respite, a whirlwind of furious strikes fell upon him, each accentuated by the enraged battle cries of the woman in front of him.

Effortlessly, he blocked the blows, each strike caught in the very openings he had left exposed. The familiar vibration of blade meeting blade rung through his hand, and once more, he found himself in the heat of battle.

He pushed himself, with a slight Prana Burst, beneath her guard, coming up from behind and slashing at her exposed back. He could briefly see her eyes widen, before, panicked, she rolled away, the edges of his falling swords coming inches away from piercing the flesh of her back.

When he met her eyes again, they were now warier, and cautious, flicking from his blades to his eyes and back again.

He smiled grimly.

She had good reason to be cautious.

A release of Prana from his legs shot him forward once more, and their blades clashed brutally, the sound of screeching metal filling up the room. Both of their strikes were turned away as they met strong resistance, before they recovered and clashed again merely moments later.

As he fought, he noted that their movements had become faster and faster, and despite his liberal, if not full, application of Reinforcement to his limbs, the Fallen was keeping up with him easily.

Each of his blows was met with equal strength. Every strike he threw was parried and countered in under the blink of an eye. Even the subtle shifts in his guard attracted instantaneous exploitations of its holes, although such openings were of his own intention.

Yet, strangely, he found himself disappointed.

Each of Lancer's blows, during his brief engagement with him, battered him as if he were a leaf in the midst of a mighty gale. Each of his swings created massive waves of air that could warp his guard with ease. Every thrust had come dangerously close to his heart as he had struggled to deflect it with heavily Reinforced limbs.

The Fallen's attacks, however, were the complete opposite. Her blows were merely taps to his blades, easily driven by the brief tensing of his Reinforced muscles. Her swings whistled through the air, creating a pathetic copy of the torrents of forceful air Lancer had, despite her moniker. Her thrusts were sent scattering askew, as if they were merely the pokes from the particularly flirtatious girls at Clock Tower.

Granted, she was skilled. The movements of her spears were always aimed at the most vulnerable spots of the body, and her footwork was efficient, with little body movement wasted. Each of her strikes flitted in and out of sight within a second, before reappearing moments later to attack him at another angle.

But in the end, her vaunted skill was simply not enough to even match, let alone eclipse, his own.

With a sharp snap of his wrist, he hooked Bakuya past the Fallen's open guard, opening a thin, yet deep, wound that extended across her arm.

She let out a pained yell, and, mercilessly, he pressed his advantage. Defense suddenly morphed into a blistering offense, each blow a mighty sledgehammer that slammed against his opponent's guard.

A swing from Kanshou met weakened resistance, before said force suddenly gave way. A high-pitched sound rung loudly, and, before him, he could see one of his enemy's spears scatter into shards of yellow light that vanished moments later.

He pushed forward, his blades flashing as if they were each a single lighting strike, flashing in an relentless series, a furious blur of attacks that no warrior could ever hope to match.

The Fallen tried desperately to defend herself, weaving through his strikes without grace nor fluidity, her remaining spear no longer extended in an offensive manner but rather brought close in to deflect would-be death wounds.

Yet it was still not enough.

Both of his swords began scoring strikes, slowly at first, and then more and more, as if floodgates had been opened. Blows rained down unforgivingly on the Fallen's collapsing defense, carving deeper and deeper wounds on her limbs and torso. Blood flowed like wine at at a decadent Roman feast, pouring down the Fallen's formerly white skin and staining it a coagulated, dark red.

Slowly, she was overwhelmed under the unstoppable torrent of strikes, each parry growing weaker, every dodge slower, before her defense collapsed entirely.

The sound of shattering glass suddenly filled the room as Bakuya wrenched the final light spear out of the Fallen's hands, shattering the weapon into thousands of motes of light that dissipated almost longingly into the cool air.

Prana flashed through his hands and into the grips of his weapons, Reinforcing them further to their maximum capacity. Their edges become impossibly sharp, rivaling that of Durandal itself in their keenness, the cores so strong that they could not be bent by even the greatest of forces, the hilts so balanced that no imperfection could be detected.

Cathartically, he pressed forward, gathering silent momentum for the final finishing blow.

She could only stare at him with horrified eyes, mouth ajar in a broken shriek, as his blades sliced through air and into her lower body, severing both muscle and nerve endings that controlled lower body movement. A sickening snap was heard as Kanshou stabbed messily through her spinal cord, pieces of vertebrae erupting from her back, scattering through the air like dominoes upon a gambling table.

He was not finished.

Brutally, he retracted his blades, bringing his Reinforced leg up for a massive kick that sent her flying across the across the length of the church. A shower of gore erupted from the abrupt removal, spraying him in the crimson elixir. The sickening crunch of bone as it shattered on the stone surface rose dully through the still air, but there was no scream. Her head lay eerily limp, contorted and broken, body awkwardly folded over itself.

A soft, yet contorted, cough escaped the confines of the half-dead Fallen's mouth, spilling blood and yellow mucus onto the floor, her gruesomely twisted form oozing all matters of bodily fluid onto the floor.

Blood and flesh. He could only laugh at the irony of such a scene occurring in a church.

According to the Christian faith, Jesus had died for man's sins. Every Sunday, many Christians, including the Catholic Church, honored and remembered his sacrifice through the Holy Communion, the Eucharist, consuming bread and sipping wine as so to represent the flesh and blood of Christ.

He had never been particularly religious - after all, many of his actions and practices were considered sacrilegious to most if not all religious doctrine - but he couldn't help wonder if God himself was pleased with the brutal sacrifice of blood and flesh upon the altar.

Had he been a bloodthirsty God, he certainly would have. The essence of life that was spilled on the floor soaked into the ancient stone as if it were being devoured by the crevices. Pieces of flesh lay randomly about the floor, as if they were scraps of food that had spilled from the confines of a voracious mouth. With such a magnificent feast for the wicked gods, how could they not be satisfied?

But he was still not yet finished, and the Red Communion continued, much to the cruel gods' delight.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Burnished steel rung like church bells through the silence as he slowly walked forwards, crimson liquid slowly dripping off the edges of his blades, tracing a bloody path behind him.

When he approached her, she lifted her head, barely conscious. A dazed, dreamy expression graced her bloodied face, seemingly peaceful, a tranquil, faintly pleased smile on her face.

It was illusion, he knew. An attempt of the mind to convince her that all was not lost, that the reality she was in was a merely a nightmare, and that she was truly somewhere else.

But did she not understand?

All dreams disappeared eventually, when the dreamer awakened.

Therefore, it was inevitable that he would stand in her way.

For he was the destroyer of such dreams, the insurmountable final obstacle as the breaker of imagination itself.

How could he not? He was the king of illusions themselves, and he possessed the one that surpassed all others in both sheer strength and scope.

He stopped in front of her, staring into her vacant eyes.

"Are you afraid?" he asked softly.

Her eyes immediately turned cognizant, her desperately conjured facade of peace collapsing all around her. An animalistic, guttural plea ripped from the Fallen's raw throat, a desperate cry for clemency and mercy.

He descended upon her like hawk would its prey, his twin blades embedding themselves deep into the small gaps between her ribs, squelching gruesomely as they penetrated skin, flesh, and organ alike.

She stopped screaming.

When he pulled them back out, they were coated with a thin layer of blood, the shining liquid faintly reflecting the fading light.

A single, disdainful flick of his swords, and they were clean once more, a fountain of red liquid erupting from the edges of each blade and drenching the ground crimson, only for it to be devoured once more by the all-consuming cracks in the stone.

Slowly, he turned around, boring his eyes straight into the last Fallen that floated above him, a horrified, stricken expression twisting her inhumanly beautiful features.

Fear.

Pure, unadulterated fear lay in her eyes.

It was an expression he had seen all to many times, in situations all too similar to this one. The face of a person who had seen their world shatter about them, their illusive utopias crumbling into nothing but dust and the bitter taste of broken dreams.

"What...what are you?"

An amused smirk crossed his face as the dank irony fell upon him once more, and for a moment, he couldn't help but wonder if this what Archer felt.

Was he no longer even called human, by the very thing that had labeled him as such not five minutes before?

"What do you think I am?"

A shower of spears fell upon him, each sent with increasing desperation as he strolled through the storm of projectiles, deflecting and dodging each with almost casual menace. The cold mask of impassivity and duty enclosed his face, and yet again, he no longer was the man that saved billions single-handedly, but the villain that slew thousands in cold blood.

But in the end, that was his legacy on the world that he had left behind. The legacy of the Wrought Iron Magus, the Second Magus Killer.

As he progressed, he noticed she was shaking, yet maintained that facade of courage, deluding herself that she could still win.

What was the point?

Both he and she knew that there could, and would, only be one end to this.

With a massive yell, she charged forward, spear aimed straight at his chest.

Specifically, at his heart.

If it had connected, it would have been a mortal blow, severing his aorta instantly and causing nearly instant death, his blood flooding from the artery and into his body, depriving him of the life-giving fluid. That was what Lancer had done to him, back in the Fifth War, when he was far more naive and far less experienced. It was perhaps his first true experience with the dark aspects of Magecraft, and the catalyst for nearly fatal clash in ideals and beliefs that followed.

Such a blow had a personal, almost intimate, connection with him.

And as such, he was not about to let it happen ever again.

Kanshou twisted. Bakuya fell.

A hideous scream of pain erupted from her mouth. He felt the light spray of blood on his face, and, absently, he stared at the black blade that was buried deep in the Fallen's back.

Her spear shattered in a thousand motes of light, dissipating in the cool air around them.

With a powerful kick, he sent her flying backwards as if she were a rag-doll. An odd, sickening squelching noise dug itself into his ear as Bakuya was forcefully wrenched from Raynare's back, chunks of gore flying into the air and erupting into a shower of blood.

Agonized cries rung throughout the empty church, grating harshly against his ears.

Calmly, he walked forward.

"Trace, on."

A new weapon appeared in his hands. A sword with a hilt of bronze, its cross-guard shaped like the wings of a bird, and a gleaming, menacing blade tapering into a razor point.

He was no longer the only wielder. The spirit of the sword, its first and most famous user, pressed lightly against his consciousness, asking for his permission for entrance. Silently, he yielded, and the righteous anger of Justice herself began to run like fire through his veins.

Raynare's hand lifted, trembling, desperately, towards the cross that loomed above her, and she brokenly whispered phrases in Latin, the harsh archaic syllables grating past his ears. Faintly, far above, he could see a green aura form around the limp body of the priestess, a soft, yet pained groan, escaping from her mouth. A sensation not unlike that of Avalon or the Caduceus of Hermes washed over him, yet it felt corrupted and unrighteous, as if it were grasped by an unworthy hand.

His eyes narrowed.

A steel boot crashed heavily into the Fallen's ribs, eliciting another screech of pain as Raynare was forcibly lifted up through the air and sent crashing back down onto the cold stone floor, the sickly crunch of bone reaching his Reinforced ears. The uncomfortable feeling of corruption dissipated, and with a relieved moan, the girl nailed to the cross far above slumped backwards, thankfully unconscious.

Slowly, he walked forward, his footsteps emanating throughout the tomb-like church, ringing almost brazenly off the walls and resonating throughout the tall spires.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" she screamed, hands hovering over her face in a futile attempt to convince herself otherwise of her impending fate. "NO! STOP! SOMEBODY! ANYBODY! SAVE ME!"

Adrasteia, it was known as by the Greeks.

The sword of Nemesis, the goddess of Vengeance who mercilessly executed all those who had wronged others, glinted faintly in the dying light.

There was nowhere one could hide. There was nowhere one could run. There was nowhere one could escape, for Justice never failed to find its targets with unerring accuracy.

Did the beings of this world not understand this?

What goes around, comes around, as went the popular saying.

Similarly, it didn't matter how long it took. It didn't matter how evil the sin. It didn't matter how much one prayed.

Justice would always be delivered.

The blade rose.

"I have judged your sins, and they are many," he said, his voice emotionless and empty, although he could feel the slight undertone of pity that slipped out beneath it.

Mercilessly, he crushed the feeling. He was no longer a human, but a blade. And the only justice he knew was by the keen edge of his swords.

Yet as he walked towards her, he couldn't help but feel the pity well up again within. Pity for the lost soul who had been merely been manipulated, a pawn that foolishly pretended to be a Queen.

For a moment he hesitated, staring at her desperate, terrified eyes, and wondered if she was capable of redemption. Wondered what Saber would do in his position.

Wondered what he would do in his position.

He ground out his next words words with a definitive finality. "And this..."

The pause seemed timeless, centuries of past, present, and future spanning in a mere second.

"This is your penance."

Raynare screamed.

The blade fell.

And then there was only silence.

AN: Heavy inspiration from Deprived. Woot woot.

Check out the Jason's X-Ray from Mortal Kombat X, with that massive machete snapping through the back curves of the ribs, and you'll see basically what happened to happened to Kalawarner when she got stabbed.

I ripped parts of Shirou's thoughts from Fate Zero. I can't help it. It's literally Gilgamesh's story, condensed into a few sentences, and its both brilliant and sad. Not to mention some vague references to Toaru. Breaker of Imagination XD

Adrasteia does not really exist as a sword. It is merely another name for Nemesis, who is the Greek primordial goddess of vengeance, and also the name of the nymph that nursed a baby Zeus. Ignore the nymph, for this story's sake.

Shirou is not going to be simply an owner of swords, like Gilgamesh. He is also the master of many, if not all, of them. This is to once again close the gap between power levels in Nasuverse and DxD. To be honest, Shirou is already pretty powerful in this fic. I mean, imagine the sheer destruction that a broken Caladbolg or Excalibur could do. With Alaya's help, he certainly has enough Prana to do so.

Furthermore, powering up Shirou is something that really hasn't been done before in this genre. People are so afraid of having an overpowered character that they immediately shy away from making their character damn respectable. Just because it isn't canon doesn't mean that you shouldn't write it guys! Of course, I'll make sure Shirou isn't curbstomping everybody, but really. If Shirou faced off against freakin' Gilgamesh, although admittedly the latter was really, really, really not trying, most Fallen Angels would be a piece of cake.

Expect some non-canon stuff. And even more Shirou "special powers."

Explaining Wrath, Justice, etc: Basically swords that were built for a certain purpose or in a certain way coagulate with swords who were also built for a similar purpose or in a similar way to form a sentient beast whose entire mentality is centered around that certain purpose. It has been simplified down to base emotions.

Also, there will be romance in my story. Lots of sordid romantic tension too. Maybe a love triangle or two thrown in. Hmmm...

Of course, Shirou and Saber is still the OTP in this story, with Shirou and Rin a close second.

Finally, no harem. No harem for anyone, in fact. Sorry!

That's not saying I don't enjoy a good harem story now and then. Check out A New ROAD of Misfortune by Itherael. It's A Certain Magical Index fic with a well-written Touma with a somewhat harem, and in my opinion, needs a lot more love than it's getting. Path of the King by Neoalfa also is a harem fic, although significant romantic development has yet to appear.

Finally, a pleasant anon reviewer said, and I quote: "Shirou committing battery on children peeping of all things, is unbelievable and suspension breaking, laughter-inducing even."

This actually makes me somewhat angry. Peeping is not something that should be taken lightly under any circumstances. Its a violation of privacy, for one, and secondly, I really doubt it makes a teenage girl feel comfortable to have their naked bodies ogled at by other people without consent. Sexual assault is actually a pretty serious problem in a lot of places. Though the rape statistics appear to be low in Japan (1.2/100K people), the reason why they are so low is that people don't actually report sexual assault. Because they're afraid of the humiliation that will follow, thanks to Japan's rather structured society that is really ostracizing at times -_- Citation below.

Dussich, J. P. J. "Decisions Not to Report Sexual Assault: A Comparative Study among Women Living in Japan Who Are Japanese, Korean, Chinese, and English-Speaking." International Journal of Offender Therapy and Comparative Criminology (2001): 278-301. Print.

So please if you want to flame, don't make yourself seem like a male chauvinist. Sexual crimes are a serious problem, and anything that may constitute a sexual crime will be treated as such in this fic.

Yeah, I'm making this really serious XP. Your second point though, anonymous viewer, that the fact that my attempt at sucking a lot of the humor out is really funny and a dumb idea, is actually pretty valid. Making a fandom from hilarious to downright serious as heck is kinda strange, but heh! Someone's gotta be that one guy :P

This is mature for a reason guys! Its because the rating is M that I expect that audiences come here with an adult, mature perspective on multiple topics. Please don't make middle-school worthy or 1800s-era comments about how men have a right to peek on women, cause really guys, we don't. Either that, or I have a really messed up view on courting and romance.

I'll try and make sure that this won't turn GRIMDERP, so I won't erase everything funny, but guys, its a serious fic! I want to actively have a purpose and teach a lesson with this story.

That's all for now! Thanks for reading, and I appreciate all your support. Review, review, review. I really want to actively improve my writing.