The abandoned warehouse district of Fuyuki stretched before Souta like a graveyard of forgotten industry. The skeletal remains of factories stood silent in the winter air, their broken windows like hollow eyes watching his every move. The wind howled through gaps in corrugated steel, carrying the scent of rust and something fouler beneath—the metallic tinge of old blood, perhaps, or just his imagination running wild.
Souta pulled his jacket tighter around himself, his breath forming pale clouds in the cold. His fingers traced the side of his neck absently, where three thin, barely visible scars ran parallel to his jawline—a reminder of his first, disastrous attempt at reinforcement magic days earlier. The wounds had healed quickly, but the scars remained, faint enough that no one would notice unless they looked closely. Yet he felt them constantly, like phantom fingers pressing against his skin. A mark of his own recklessness. A warning.
*This time, I won't make the same mistake.*
He had spent the entire morning scouring the industrial sector, checking warehouse after warehouse. Most were empty, their floors littered with broken glass and rat droppings. But Warehouse #7 at the far end of the district was different.
The padlock on the side door was new.
Souta's pulse quickened. He reached out, channeling a thin stream of Od into his fingers, and twisted. The lock snapped with a sharp *ping*, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.
Inside, the warehouse was a cavern of shadows. Weak winter light filtered through grime-caked windows, illuminating dust motes drifting lazily in the air. And there, in the center of the concrete floor—
A magic circle.
Not just any circle. This one was massive, at least ten feet across, its intricate symbols drawn in a substance that glistened faintly in the dim light. Souta didn't need to touch it to know it wasn't paint. The metallic scent in the air was too strong, too fresh.
His stomach twisted as he noticed the small, smeared handprints at the circle's edge.
*He's been using them.*
The realization hit him like a physical blow. Ryuunosuke Uryuu wasn't just preparing to summon Caster—he'd already started the process. And he wasn't stopping at one child.
Souta's fingers found the scars on his neck again, pressing hard enough to hurt.
*I can't hesitate this time.*
Souta crouched behind a stack of moldering wooden pallets, his muscles coiled tight. The plan was simple: wait for Ryuunosuke to return, ambush him, and end this before Caster could be summoned.
*Just like Kiritsugu would do.*
The thought should have steadied him. Instead, it made his hands shake.
He wasn't Kiritsugu. He wasn't a killer.
But Ryuunosuke was.
Hours crawled by. The cold seeped into Souta's bones, but he didn't move. His legs cramped, his back ached, and the scars on his neck burned like fresh wounds. Still, he waited.
Then—
The screech of rusted hinges.
Ryuunosuke Uryuu strolled in whistling a cheerful tune, dragging a small, squirming bundle behind him. The serial killer looked absurdly ordinary—a young man with messy brown hair and an easy smile. If not for the muffled sobs coming from the burlap sack in his grip, he could have been any harmless college student.
Souta moved before he could think.
He lunged from the shadows, slamming into Ryuunosuke with enough force to send them both crashing to the concrete. The sack tumbled away, a small hand clawing free from its opening.
"Wha—? Who the hell—?" Ryuunosuke's laugh was breathless, delighted, as if this were the most fun he'd had in weeks. His elbow smashed into Souta's ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.
They rolled across the floor, grappling like wild animals. Ryuunosuke was stronger than he looked, his fingers clawing at Souta's eyes, his knee driving up into his stomach. Pain exploded through Souta's body, and for one terrifying second, he thought, *He's going to kill me.*
Panic surged through him. Without thinking, he reached for his magic circuits—
"Reinforce!"
The magic hit like a live wire.
Power flooded Souta's arms, wild and uncontrolled. His fist connected with Ryuunosuke's chest—and *caved it in*.
The sound was horrible. A wet, crunching *snap* of bone and flesh. Ryuunosuke's body lifted clean off the ground, hurtling backward like a ragdoll. He hit the warehouse wall with a sickening *thud*, then slid down, leaving a dark smear on the concrete.
Silence.
Ryuunosuke twitched once, blood bubbling from his lips. His eyes—wide with childlike surprise—stared at nothing.
Souta looked down at his own hands. The skin was split open in jagged lines, blood dripping onto the floor. His magic circuits screamed in protest, the backlash searing through his nerves. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow, yawning horror in his chest.
*I killed him.*
Across the warehouse, the child—a boy no older than eight—was sobbing uncontrollably, his small hands pressed over his mouth.
Souta staggered to his feet. His vision swam. The scars on his neck burned like brands.
He'd come here to murder a man. He'd told himself it was necessary.
So why did he feel like *he* was the monster?
Later, after the police had come and gone (after he'd wiped the boy's memory with a clumsy mental interference spell, after he'd burned the warehouse to the ground), Souta stood under the scalding spray of his shower, scrubbing at his hands until they were raw.
The blood was gone. The scars on his neck remained.
Three thin, parallel lines. A permanent reminder.
Not just of his failure to control his magic.
But of the moment he'd crossed a line he could never uncross.