Disclaimer: Muramasa the Demon Blade (Oboro Muramasa) belongs to Vanillaware. Fate/stay Night belongs to Type-Moon. I have no ownership of the copyrights of either series in any way.

A Glimpse: Muramasa/Fate

Justice; a word that has been mired and twisted, blackened and corrupted, beyond what the man could possibly imagine. A man who came to be an ally of Justice; he sought from the very beginning of his existence to become a hero. Soon in the coming morrows however, a time predetermined, predestined, a death on a hill of swords, was coming. For what reason, the man would not ever tell. The man had accepted this fate however. He knew that to accept this and die was Justice. He knew that doing so would save the most number of lives possible. And for that he would do anything. He would not run, nor would he hide. On the day that they came, he would face them with his full might and blades. That time however was still a few sunsets away.

Yes, a man stood tall, but not proud, in wilderness that belonged to his home country of Japan. Or at least what was once his home country. The man currently wandering the forest of bamboo would not have been identifiable as Japanese however. His hair was white like snow, or ash; a far cry from the typical color of black that would have been found on others in the Land of the Rising Sun. What little of one could see of his skin, of which were his hands and face, was darkened to a tan that seemed to be from standing long in a fire as if he was a blacksmith or a crafter. The rest of his body was covered in clothing. Underneath a red mantle of some sort, one could see a black armor that fit his form very well and black leather pants with metal strapped boots. The man seemed to not be carrying anything else on his person. His cold gray eyes pierced forward like an arrow through the old woods of bamboo looking and searching for something, an exit perhaps?

Whether or not the man found the exit, he still had to look through what was around him. He found with his keen eyes many strange things. Though the wind, rain, and sun had taken many of the markings, it was clear that this forest once held battles. Every so often he would come across things such as sword swipes on the rock face, broken metal that seemed to have once been part of a sword. No, it was part of a sword. The man clearly could see as such, even if others couldn't. He also noted that some of the bamboo was significantly shorter than the others. The forest has been untouched for some time, even so, above him in the tops of the bamboo, some of the ones that were closer to the path he was on were clearly much shorter than their neighbors, and seemed to have been cut that way due to the slices he could see at their peaks. If they were cut on purpose however, he couldn't tell that.

All of this, however, did not distract the man from what was currently on his mind. A moment ago, he could hear whispers coming from beyond the forest. He had only an inkling of an idea as to what it was, but it called out to him regardless and so he followed it. Even though his eyes, though sharp as blades, could not see through the forest, his ears could hear the whisper. Its volume growing as he walked deeper into the forest. This search would probably be his final act before his last day. Suddenly however, he found the exit. The bamboo finally parted and the sun could be seen. It's orange glow making it clear that it was now at the time of twilight. What he saw there was truly something out of his dreams.

Before him was a large expanse of grassy plains. A field of blades and armor, a battlefield, stretched out over the horizon, long forgotten, long abandoned. He stood in awe for but only a moment, his ears still listening to the whisper to venture forth onto the accursed grounds. No matter what was calling to him, he believed that he was ready to face it.

As he walked over the former war zone, he took notice of many things. The broken blades all around him and ancient imperial Japanese armor that housed only skeletons were numerous and uncountable. Horse skeletons, gunpowder, rotted and gone structures of wood, they all indicated an ancient battle at least 300 years ago if not more so. He, like many others, was schooled in Japanese history, but he could not recall what battle could have taken place here. However, the fact that all of the metal and dead had remained untouched even by raiders after so long would mean that this battle was not recorded and taught in the first place. That fact added further caution to the man and made him raise his guard even further as he continued to search for the source of the whisper.

At this moment however, a wind began to blow. Dust and leaves were picked up and hurtled through the air. The man's eyes took notice and followed them towards the setting sun, whereupon he saw them. In the distance, he could see a pair of blades, katana, implanted into the ground, crossing each other with the sun shining behind them to the left. The light caused the blades to appear black as a result. Perhaps the whisper came from there he wondered. His destination now clear, he resumed his walk, now heading straight for the pair of blades that lay past the battlefield.

Slowly, but surely, he closed in on the blades, the whisper now no longer so soft. This was where the voice was coming from, he was assured. He then refocused on the pair once more and could see that the both of them were in perfect condition despite the age that he could see from them. He closed his eyes from looking too long into the sun which was behind the blades. When he opened them, he then began to reopen and close his eyes many times over. The two blades were now but one single Katana. There were no crossing blades, just the single sword that was stuck in the ground. The voice was now becoming clearer.

Come closer…

The man was about to retort, but stopped himself. There was no point in replying to a blade. Many would question why he would know that the voice came from the sword, but he would never answer them. Regardless, something compelled him to follow the blade's word. At one moment he blinked, and the next, he found himself standing in front of the sword. He could now clearly see the blade that was calling him all this time.

The blade to the casual eye would not have looked to be anything special. Though its handle was white and its hand guard was a bit more ornate than usual. It looked to simply be an unusually long lasting blade. The man who saw it now however, was no casual observer. The blade before him was one of the most masterfully crafted swords he had ever seen. Perfection was the only word that could come to the man's mind as he took in every detail. His heart raced as he saw work that could only be accomplished once in a life time, and could only hope to be seen in a hundred. While the man had seen blades that could perhaps match or even surpass the one before him, he could not deny the presence of the blade that stuck itself in the ground.

Thanks to the man's abilities, he was able to discern everything about the blade through but a glance. He saw that it was forged using the spirit and souls of countless demons, but forged into beauty despite the horror of its material. He viewed all the other 107 blades that came before it to serve as a base to ultimately result in the pinnacle. He saw its forger: a master who he had heard only in legends. From that, the gray haired man was struck with awe and reverence to be in the presence of his work, his greatest work. Finally, he came upon the name of the sword that stood before him: Oboro Muramasa.

Release Me…

The blade cried to be wielded. The man awoke from his reverence and renewed his vigilance. As magnificent a find as this was, only so much could be discerned from but a glance, even for him. If he wanted to know more he would have to actually hold it in his hands; an ironic thought. Years of battle experience however alerted the man to something. The blade, of course, was more than it seemed. There was something demonic about the sword, thought the man.

Wield Me…

The voice notwithstanding, truly something evil seemed to exude from it. Though no matter what he did however, something still compelled him to approach the blade and hold it. A force that grew stronger the more he gazed upon it, a demonic force. And so, without even realizing it, he took hold of the sword with his right hand, and drew it out of the ground so fast that it sung like a diapason, even in the short time of its movement. The blade was now firmly in his hand and he raised it up to the sky as if in triumph.

Kill…Murder…Destroy…Everything…!

The voice was now clear in his head and raging to be followed. Its demands came one after the other in an attempt to control him. He grabbed, with his left hand, the hand that held the sword, perhaps in an attempt to try and control himself and prevent him from doing something he would regret; more so than he already has.

Submit… Destroy Everything…Kill Everyone!

No. He couldn't succumb to the voice. All his life he fought for the sake of others. He would not fall here. Not when he was so close… to what was he so close to? His life was already in shambles, having thrown most of it away for Justice. Those that were once close to him were now distant and cold, all from his own doing. He already was going to fight and kill many people on a hill of swords. Perhaps this was the battlefield. Yes, it all felt so right… to just let the sword take hold. His grip on the hand that held the Muramasa began to loosen. A sense of clarity seemed to wash over him as he let the swords words sink in.

Yes… kill them…

That's right… that's all he had to do… kill them… kill them all!

"Hmph! To think that the first person in ages to find the blade would be so weak willed. Or did you just have no will of your own to begin with?" A voice, which was that of a young boy's, echoed from somewhere.

"Truly a shame. Without the Izuna style, he will surely perish at the blades hand. But so is the fate of those who succumb to demon blades." Now a woman's voice, demure and elegant in its timbre, sounded from nowhere, but her words were harsh and her inflections were more like a man's. To the one holding the blade however, they felt like the only sense of light in the darkness he felt right now from holding this weapon that sought to control him. The voices reawakened the man's spirit and helped him to resume his fight.

"Oh. So you do have the will to fight? How long will you last without Oboro style however to keep you sane?" The boy chuckled out in amusement. It would seem that from the voices the two, the boy and the woman, were in parallel, not aware of the other's existence. Another ability of the man's was to listen to the will of a weapon's old masters and integrate their styles and skills as his own when he wielded the weapons. Perhaps that was what was happening now. Perhaps the two before the man were those who wielded the blade he now desperately held.

"It's of no use to struggle. You do not have the fortitude of a demon to hold the blade with any clarity. Simply give up." The woman shot at him. Her words were cold, but in them a sense of pity could be felt; a small twinge of kindness though infinitesimal. This only served to push the man to try harder to control himself. The man fell to his knees and plunged the blade back into the ground. He now had both hands placed at the pommel trying to resist the temptations.

Do not struggle… Kill… all… Destroy all… let nothing REMAIN!

It was no use after all. The man's clarity was being swallowed up. Years of fighting for his life, for fighting to save the lives of others, they were now drying up in the face of something he could not control. The man made a resigned sigh, and internally lamented his last moment of weakness; He was sad that this was how it would end. He would end as a murderous monster, even after having killed so many. Truly a sad, tragic fate, more so than the one he thought his life would end with.

Suddenly however, he felt something placed upon his hands that lay upon the swords pommel. He looked up to find that was placed upon his hands were two more. He looked further up to find that the hands belonged to a boy and a woman, the ones he presumed owned the voices he heard earlier.

"What after all that, now's the time you give up? That's pathetic." The one who spoke first was the boy. He had shaggy black hair that covered one eye and a blue long flowing scarf. His blue garb was like that of a ninja's like he had heard in stories past, the only thing different were the chain of skulls that hung at his waist. The boy looked young, but the man could see the scars of battle on the boy's skin. His baggy eyes also were an indication of hardships that the man could not imagine.

"A fair showing but I'm still disappointed that that is all you had to offer." Now it was the woman's time to speak. Unlike the boy, the woman looked nothing like a hardened warrior. Her hair was tied up with flowery décor and she wore an ornate silk Kimono that was pink and had Sakura decal all over it and was tied with a cyan Obi. Her slender legs wore stockings of magenta. The woman before him looked more ready to be a princess than anything else. The only thing that indicated battle on her was the plates of shoulder armor that rested on both her arms. What truly felt uncanny before here was her gaze however. Unlike the rest of her, her face had an expression that seemed to indicate even more hardship than that of the boy's. It was like an old man in the form of a woman. Just what was her circumstance that could bring something like this to pass? Regardless however-

"I still haven't given up yet!" The man finally spoke. "Don't count me out when I've only just started." The man's strength had returned with the new allies in tow. Thought the two spoke harshly, he could still feel a sense of kindness emanating from the two apparitions of the blade's old masters. Knowing that there was a way to win, he was now desperately attempting to suppress the urge.

Do not fight… Give in… there is nothing left for you but to give in…

"Shut up." The man struggled to say. The blades influence was certainly strong, worthy of the term demon blade. The man had already fought demons however. The man fought the blades influence with everything he had; his memories of his live fueling his mental strikes against the attacks. His morals backing his defense against the rage that tried to control him. He would win!

SUBMIT! DRAW BLOOD!

Or so the man thought. The man's core was a blade. He was the bone of his sword. Had he not had such a core, the blade would most likely have lost influence on him. However, because of his attunement to the weapons known as swords, he felt too one with the demon blade that was now about to control him.

"In the end, it comes to this then…" the man spoke in resignation, though a hint of pride could be heard.

"Be grateful that I would even allow such a thing to be passed through the blade." The woman now chimed in and she too sounded resigned yet proud. It was like hearing a master that was impressed by the tenacity of the student. The hands of the pair tightened around his own and he could feel their knowledge and skills pour in to him. The Oboro style, or Izuna style, was now his own. The foot- work, the breathing, the movements, the will, all were now his. The man's ability to learn the style of the masters through the blade had shown through, and he so learned their style; the style of which when mastered, allowed for the use of Demon blades without the loss of ones sanity. The voice was now gone. The man was no longer compelled by the blade to become a murderer, at least a greater one than he was now. Strange how both the compulsion to draw blood and the counteraction to it would stem from the man's own power to sympathize with these weapons; A funny little twist of fate perhaps?

The man stood, exhausted with eyes closed, bringing the blade with him from the ground. Upon standing at his highest, he opened his eyes to find the boy and woman who helped him were now standing as well, both of them looking at him.

"I could see that you still have something you wish to fight for. Use that blade to cut away your regrets." Spoke the boy.

"You look like you have walls that surround you and your future. That blade is one so sharp, it can cut even the gods." Spoke the woman.

"No matter the despair that may befall you, use the blade, Oboro Muramasa, to slash at fate itself, and carve your own happiness." The two now spoke as one. The wind now blew and with it, they floated away like shining gold dust bit by bit. Before they were gone completely however, the man could see for but a moment, the two smiling at him. A smile with a hope for the man to find what he truly desired. A smile, he had not seen for so long. It funnily enough, brought a wry smile to his, own tired face.

The man looked upon the ground where the two stood and found a sheath. After the brief glance, he walked over to pick it up. With but a guess, he swung the Muramasa in dramatic spins before finally placing the blade within the sheath. It clicked perfectly in place. Perhaps the sheath was a gift, a sign to him being the new owner of the blade. Whatever the case was, the blade, Oboro Muramasa was now his.

Muramasa/Fate

The day had arrived, sooner than he had anticipate, or maybe it was that time had moved faster than he thought it did. Regardless, the battle indeed took place upon a Hill of Swords. Armies greeted him in the morn and came in wave after wave to kill the man they blamed for the world's terror and vice. All of them, one by one, were slain at the hands of the man's swords and arrows. The man never did draw the blade he obtained just days before. Now however, the battle was over. No more came, but they didn't need to. The man was dying now. He had used everything he had to survive. This was truly going to be his last resting place. He was laid out on the ground. The newly acquired blade was silent at his side. Out of regret for not having used it, the man removed it from the knot he had at his waist and held it aloft above him.

"I guess I'll just look at you one last time." He told the blade. Something in him however, prevented him from simply unsheathing the blade. With a quick hand, he drew the blade at lightning speed, so fast that it was as if the flash blackened the world around him; hundreds of slashes could be seen, all in the same instant. Satisfied with the result, the man let his arms fall the side, no energy remained to even hold them. He closed his eyes, his hands still gripping the blade and sheath with what little life he had left. This was the end. He knew it. He would face it. He would accept it. It's too bad; he couldn't truly cut anything at all with the blade, Oboro Muramasa.

Muramasa/Fate

"Senpai, breakfast is ready!" A voice so tender and dear now rang through his mind. Had hs gone so far that he was now becoming deluded? "Senpai?"

The man opened his eyes. Instead of a clear orange sky like he expected, a ceiling he had not seen in so long was roofed over him. The man jolted upwards in surprise. Looking at his left he saw what he had sought to find; a mirror. What he did not expect was what he would see in the mirror. His hair was now an orange red, the color of his youth. His eyes were no longer a steel grey, but a warm gold. His clothes were also replaced by his pajamas that he had not worn for ages. It was as if he was in high school again.

"Senpai? I've been calling you for a while now is everything okay?" *Click*. The door opened to reveal a young woman around his age. Her demure and shy form was as adorable as he remembered them to be. Her smile began to melt his glass heart for more reasons than one, and not all of them the most pleasant. "Oh! You're awake senpai. That's too bad. I would have had fun trying to wake you up." Yes the girl that affectionately called him her senpai, Sakura Matou. How he missed her so. Overcome with emotion, the boy ran to her, not bothering to change out of his sleep wear, and embraced her. "S-s-shirou-s-senpai, w-what's going on?" The girl said in an excited panic, though the act was not unwanted.

"Sorry, Sakura" the man… no boy… replied. "I just missed you, a lot." The boy said with full brunt honesty. He let go of the girl in a hasty manner after realizing what he was doing.

"W-what are you talking about Senpai? We saw each other yesterday." The girl was confused, but happy.

"No, it's nothing Sakura… nothing you have to worry about." The boy apologized. Shirou Emiya apologized.

"Well, it's fine. Hurry up though, breakfast is getting cold. You don't want to be late for school now do you? I 'll see you at the table." And like that the girl left. She closed the door behind her, leaving the boy to his own devices. He truly was back in high school. He looked back at the bed that he had not slept in for years. Something was amiss about it however. Something seemed to be on top of it. Walking over to the bed, he then pulled the sheets off to find something he did not expect at all. A blade rested on the spread, sheathed and peaceful. The blade was Oboro Muramasa.

"A blade that can cut fate, huh?" Shirou said to himself as he brought the blade up from the bed. He turned his head towards his wall calendar and saw something. The year and the date; one week before an unholy war for the ironically named Holy Grail would begin. "This feels too real to be just an illusion. Could it be because of you that I'm here now?" The blade was of course silent. It could not speak to one with mastery over the accursed sword style. Even if it did speak though, it would be of sweet devilish murder. "I still have everything I did from before." Indeed, Shirou's circuits were still as powerful as before, his knowledge and blade repertoire were intact, even after this strange regression of time. It would appear that the only thing that changed about him, even though all of time had regressed, was his appearance.

Perhaps this was fate's own design, or had he carved this path himself with the sword he held? He couldn't say, though he couldn't care either. He was now given a chance to redo everything from the start. This felt too real to be a dream, and the blade he held added further credence to this reality as he saw it. Yes, he could change things, everything would be better this time. He swore to himself that everything would be better this time.

"Senpai!" The girl yelled from afar in the estate.

"Coming!" Shirou yelled back. All of that stuff could wait however. For now he would enjoy breakfast with one of his loved ones. He would enjoy this luxury, and he will use Muramasa to slash at fate to make sure that he could do so more than he could ever before.

Yes… this time, this time for sure. This time, with the blade that could cut even the gods, he would save everyone. This he was sure of. Though perhaps it was not as easy as he had hoped, for it never is. That however, is a story for another time.

Muramasa/Fate… END

Author's notes: This concept was bothering me for a long time. It just kept nagging and nagging and getting in the way, before finally I said, "F**k it! I'll just write it.", and just shot this out in a day. It's a one shot, plain and simple. I don't know enough about the Fate or Nasu universe to be able to write it accurately. The only part I know to any extent would be Fate/Extra (I love Caster and her fluffy fox ears and tail). Muramasa barely has a universe to begin with. I don't plan on continuing this any further than I have now. Maybe one day, if I feel like it, but right now I just wanted to get it out of my mind so I could concentrate on other writings and watching Zero Punctuation. Still though, I hope that those of you, who took the time to read it, enjoyed what little I had provided and hope that any criticisms that you may have will be explained in a review. Thanks for humoring me and my urges, sorry for anything I may have offended you with. Until next time, thanks for reading and have a nice day.