Shirō Becomes Artoria: 33 (Patreon)

Shirō sat on the porch of the newly rebuilt Emiya estate, watching the stars twinkle above. Everything looked exactly as it had before, as if the chaos of the past few days had been nothing but a fever dream. The house, which had once been reduced to rubble, now stood pristine. The walls were sturdy, the sliding doors polished, and the garden looked even better than before.

Of course, this wasn’t some miracle. Shirō had spent the entire night fixing everything, using the endless mana that still surged through her veins.

By the time morning arrived, there wasn’t a single crack left in the foundation.

Rin had been the first to say something.

"You do realize you just rebuilt an entire estate overnight, right?"

Shirō, sipping tea, had only shrugged.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," Rin repeated flatly. "Just yeah? That’s all you have to say?"

"I mean," Shirō stretched, feeling oddly refreshed despite the lack of sleep. "It’s not like I had anything better to do."

Rin had stared at her, then muttered something about absolute bullshit before walking off.

That had been the start of it.

The others had all quietly decided that Shirō was not to be left alone, lest she get bored and try to do something insane again.

And so, just like that, they all stayed.

It wasn’t even a discussion.

Rin, Illya, and even Archer simply remained.

None of them openly said it was to keep an eye on Shirō, but the looks they exchanged made it obvious.

Not that Shirō particularly cared.

She had fixed Fuji-nee’s scooter back to its original state, turning it back from a death machine to an ordinary, unimpressive vehicle.

And she had acted like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t been one breath away from obliterating humanity.

Like she hadn’t summoned thousands of Excaliburs at once.

Like she hadn’t almost murdered Gilgamesh with a snap of her fingers.

Rin had spent an entire morning pacing in frustration.

Archer had given up trying to reason with her.

And Illya?

Illya was perfectly happy.

"Big Sister is fun," she had said cheerfully, eating cake.

Shirō had only smiled.

That was enough to make Archer groan.

Even so, they settled into a strange, almost peaceful routine.

The Holy Grail War was over.

Technically.

But it wasn’t a real victory.

Because even though they had stopped the Grail from manifesting, there was still one problem.

Illya’s heart.

Illyasviel von Einzbern had been designed for one purpose, to be the vessel for the Holy Grail. Her body was built to withstand the magical burden. She was never meant to live beyond this war.

Her heart was the Grail.

Without her sacrifice, the cycle would never be completed.

The war would never truly end.

At least, that’s what the old magi families would argue.

But none of them were here anymore.

And nobody, not Shirō, not Rin, not Archer, not even Sakura, was willing to let Illya die for the sake of a system they had already broken.

So that was that.

The Holy Grail War would never take place again.

"Simple," Shirō had said, arms crossed. "We just don’t let it happen."

Rin had sighed, muttering about how that was not how it worked.

But, ultimately, nobody disagreed.

Illya stayed. She laughed. She played. She was alive.

That was all that mattered.

As for Sakura…

Shirō didn’t question where she was.

She had seen the way Rin’s expression darkened whenever her name was mentioned.

She had seen the way she avoided the topic, brushing it off as unimportant.

Sakura had done terrible things.

Horrible, unforgivable things.

And yet…

Shirō had no interest in punishing her.

That wasn’t her place.

She had spent his entire life trying to be a Hero of Justice.

But justice wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t about swinging a sword and cutting down evil.

Because sometimes, the line between hero and villain blurred.

Sometimes, justice was cruel.

And sometimes, it wasn’t justice at all, just vengeance wrapped in a prettier name.

She didn’t know what Rin had decided.

But she trusted her.

She trusted that, whatever happened to Sakura, it was what needed to happen.

So she didn’t ask.

And Rin never told her.

The days passed.

The nights were calm.

And for the first time in what felt like forever,

Fuyuki was quiet.

The war was over.

But the story wasn’t.

qoOop

It had almost been three years since the world nearly ended, and somehow, life had settled into a strange, barely functional rhythm at the Emiya estate. Or what remained of it. Once reduced to rubble after a certain Excalibur-induced incident, it now stood proud and polished, thanks to Shirō and her disturbing amount of mana that made reconstruction a one-night project. The estate sparkled. Too much, maybe. It didn’t have the lived-in feel anymore; it was like living in a slightly off-putting mansion-shaped mana-battery.

However, we’re not in Japan today. We’re in England, in a cozy little mansion owned by Rin Tohsaka. Clock Tower property. Historical. Supposedly. It squeaked like a haunted house and smelled faintly of dust and overpriced furniture wax, but Rin insisted it was “prime magical real estate.”

In the kitchen, Archer stood at the counter with surgical precision, slicing vegetables like they had personally offended him. His hands moved with a practiced rhythm, clean, efficient, and slightly passive-aggressive. The scent of grilled mackerel and miso soup filled the room, the comforting kind of aroma that clashed hard with the European weather outside. Rain dripped against the windows in slow, lazy streaks.

At the table, Shirō sat like a human food vacuum, wolfing down rice, miso soup, and a truly unreasonable number of side dishes with the elegance of a black hole devouring a star. Piles of emptied bowls stood stacked like an ancient fortress in front of her, growing dangerously close to the edge. Archer kept glancing over with narrowed eyes, wondering if he’d have to reinforce the table legs or throw her outside.

The door banged open with a gust of cold air, and Rin stormed in holding a heavy grimoire under one arm, muttering bitterly about plumbing and idiotic professors who thought summoning rituals should be written in Latin and Akkadian for no practical reason.

Her grumbling came to an abrupt halt when she saw the dinner table.

“Shirō!” she snapped, slamming the book down. “You’re going to eat us into poverty again!”

Shirō looked up mid-bite, chopsticks still in her mouth. “Eh?”

Rin pointed at the mountain of empty bowls. “That was supposed to be a week’s worth of rations! A week! That was our emergency stock!”

“I’m still growing,” Shirō replied, deadpan, then chomped down on a custard bun like it had insulted her ancestors.

“You’re twenty!” Rin’s voice hit a note that made the windows tremble.

Shirō raised a finger while chewing. “Mana metabolism.”

“That’s not a thing!”

Rin stormed over, jabbing a finger at the table. “This is abuse. This is food terrorism. And don’t even get me started on how the grocery budget has tripled since you moved in, where’s my damn maid?!”

From the hallway came a startled squeak, and Sakura skidded into the room in full ridiculous maid getup. And it wasn’t just a normal maid outfit, it was a parody of one. Poofy skirt, oversized cat ears twitching with every nervous breath, a fake tail that somehow moved on its own, and a feather duster clutched like a lifeline. Her face was bright red as she bowed deeply.

“I-I’m sorry, Rin-sama! I’ll clean it immediately! Forgive me!”

Rin’s tone went flat and cold, like someone snapping a twig with malice. “Sakura. I said crystal. This table should reflect my soul. I want to look into it and see a flawless, radiant goddess. Do I look like I can see myself in this speckled travesty of wood?”

“No, Rin-sama...” Sakura whispered, face nearly pressed to the floor.

“You’re lucky I don’t make you polish the chimney with your toothbrush!”

Shirō finally paused between bites. “Isn’t that kind of... excessive?”

“Shut it, freeloader,” Rin snapped, spinning around. “You’re not even paying rent! You’ve taken over my pantry, my guest room, my lab space, and now you’re training Sakura in household maintenance like she’s your unpaid magical intern!”

“She wanted structure,” Shirō replied, reaching for another bun. “Routine helps her mentally recover.”

“Oh, don’t even, !” Rin shoved her hands in her hair. “You also let her live! You remember that little thing? The Holy Grail War? The murder? The human experimentation? The thousands of people she killed? I could’ve ended her. Neatly. With one good stab and a conveniently deep grave. But noooo. You just had to get all noble and preachy about redemption!”

Sakura froze. Archer’s slicing slowed. Even the damn custard bun looked uncomfortable.

Shirō chewed slowly. The air in the room turned dense.

“I stand by it,” she said softly. “She deserved a chance.”

“She doesn’t even clean properly!”

“Then teach her,” Shirō said, standing up. Her plate clinked against the others. “Or don’t. But don’t keep pretending you haven’t already forgiven her. You wouldn’t keep her here if you hadn’t.”

Sakura’s lip trembled.

Rin’s nostrils flared. “That’s not the point.”

“No, Rin,” Archer said suddenly, “I think it is.”

There was a long silence. Rain pattered softly against the kitchen window. Somewhere in the pipes, the heating system groaned like a sick cat.

Rin clicked her tongue, adjusted her collar, and muttered, “God, I need that Clock Tower scholarship before I have an aneurysm.”

She snatched her bag off the counter, turned back toward Shirō. “Get ready. We’re gonna be late.”

“One more bun, ”

“Now.”

Archer, ever the mediator, leaned over and wiped Shirō’s cheek with a napkin. She glared at him like a kid being scolded at a family restaurant.

As she stood and stretched, Rin’s voice sliced through the awkward quiet again.

“Oh, and that little stunt with Chaldea? Why did you turn them down? They offered you a lab, your own territory, an entire research team, ”

“Didn’t feel right,” Shirō said, yawning. “Too... synthetic. Besides, I’m working with them remotely. I do support work. Send plans, help with artifact containment. No one bothers me.”

Rin narrowed her eyes. “And definitely not because of him, right?”

Her gaze flicked to Archer.

He didn’t respond. Just handed Shirō a cup of fresh tea, eyes unreadable. But the silence said more than words ever could.

Shirō didn’t say thank you, but her expression softened as she took it.

They had that strange energy, something coiled and old between them, something unfinished. Maybe it was from sharing the same soul, or fighting side by side during the darkest days. Maybe it was just something deeper. But it lingered.

Rin rolled her eyes so hard it probably hurt. “Whatever. Come on. We’re gonna be late unless you plan on teleporting in front of the main gates again and making me look like a sidekick.”

Shirō smirked. “Tempting but I promised Illya that I'd behave.”

They headed out, two absurdly powerful young women pretending to be students, leaving behind a house full of curses and tea.

As soon as the door shut, Sakura collapsed into a chair, the fake tail curling miserably.

“Are they gone?” she mumbled.

“For now,” Archer replied, stacking plates.

“I hate this outfit.”

“I know.”

“I think the tail’s sentient.”

“Probably.”

“Kill me.”

“Not today.”

And in the quiet that followed, the house settled into its usual rhythm: a place where absurdity was normal, justice wore an apron, and peace was a temporary illusion between disasters.