IBHJ 1384

Over the following days, Shirou shamelessly set up camp inside the stone-walled ruins, completely absorbed in the murals that lined the cave. He questioned anyone who passed by. Every carving, every glyph, every fragment of myth—he studied them like sacred texts.

And slowly, he pieced together the worldview that shaped this planet’s understanding of the cosmos.

The story was simple. Archetypal.

A myth forged in terror and awe.

According to their beliefs, the darkness—that unshaped, formless void—was the Creator God, the one who birthed the universe from nothing.

From that darkness came the centipedes—beings the villagers called Cosmic Gods. Titans who fed not on flesh, but on planets. Star systems. Life.

They were Insatiable.

And it was that unceasing hunger… that eventually stirred one human to rise.

The villagers had a name for him:

The Fool.

The one too foolish to kneel. The one who defied.

He crossed mountains. Rivers. Galaxies.

He journeyed to the edge of the universe—and there, he forged a weapon meant for killing gods.

Then, he used it.

He succeeded. He struck down one of the centipede gods.

But what he found after that… was despair.

There wasn’t just one.

There were many.

And as the others descended, the Fool, alone and broken, was torn apart.

As punishment for his rebellion, the gods unleashed the earth demons—monsters meant to devour what humanity remained.

A brutal, poetic ending. The kind myths were made of.

But something in the tale caught Shirou’s eye. A detail buried in the background of the carving.

The place where the Fool forged the god-killing weapon.

The edge of the universe.

In the mural, it was represented not as a mountain or forge, but as a swirling shape.

A Vortex.

According to Ruka, the swirling Vortex in the mural wasn’t just a place.

It was a door.

Shirou had stared at it for a long time, his thoughts spiraling almost as much as the carving itself. It looked like a Gate of Vortex—similar to that interdimensional rifts. That alone was disturbing.

The mystery of the Lord of Salvation ran deeper than anything he had faced before.

And the worst part?

Everything he knew came from others. From Gaia system theorists. From fragmentary data. From myths, speculation, and half-whispers passed through civilizations long extinct.

No hard evidence.

But in his gut, Shirou knew—the Lord of Salvation’s origins weren’t bound to the Gaia star system.

They began here.

In the Golden Universe.

And whatever the truth was… the Lord of Salvation still held all the cards.

This was his board. His rules. His timing.

Thankfully, Shirou also understood something else:

Until a certain condition was met, the Lord of Salvation couldn’t personally intervene.

That was his only advantage now.

For now, all he could do was manipulate the gameboard. Move pawns. Tip balances. Plant seeds.

In the present world, his chips were obvious: the Beasts, and the real Manaka Sajyou, sealed within the body of Manaka. Those were the keys he played in silence, shaping fate from beneath the surface.

But here, in the Origin Era?

What pieces had he placed?

Was it the Golden Emperor?

The Void Overlord that Origin Gaia spoke of?

Shirou didn’t know.

His mind was spinning, tangled in too many threads. The only thing he could say for certain was this:

The Lord of Salvation didn’t dominate with brute force. He didn’t need to.

His power lay in design.

In induction.

In the quiet pull of inevitability.

Step by step, He had lured Shirou forward. Nudged him toward awakening as the heir of the Vortex. Guided him to liberate the Gate, to open the Age of Origins.

If not for that one deviation—the accidental birth of the Ideal King—and the fall of the Akasha Arrow into Shirou’s hands…

It would have been over.

He would have walked the path laid for him, never knowing it had already ended.

Even worse—He had nearly convinced Shirou that He was Shirou.

The idea had crawled into his mind like a parasite, whispering doubts, urging self-restraint, sowing hesitation.

If Origin Gaia hadn’t destroyed through that illusion—he might still be a puppet dancing on strings he couldn’t see.

This wasn’t just an enemy.

It was a mind that saw farther, planned deeper, and never missed a move.

And still, Shirou had no choice but to face him.

Because who told him to be a transmigrator?

That bitter thought twisted in his chest.

But now… even that was in doubt.

If the Lord of Salvation had manipulated him so thoroughly—was he really a transmigrator?

Or had that too been planted?

A fabricated memory?

A role forged to suit the Vortex’s design?

Shirou didn’t know.

But he knew this:

He would tear that mask away.

He would face him head-on.

And he would win.

…

Boom—!

A violent tremor suddenly rocked the ground above them. Dust trickled from the ceiling. The cave vibrated with the force of something massive slamming against the earth.

Shirou’s eyes sharpened.

“Let’s go take a look.”

Tiamat nodded immediately.

“Master’s will is my destiny.”

Shirou didn’t reply. He didn’t even look at her.

The smoother this Tiamat spoke, the more convinced he became that when he returned to the present world, the real Tiamat would “love” him very properly for everything he was doing now.

Without stepping fully outside, he crouched near the cave’s entrance and peered through the shadows—watching the surface.

His eyes narrowed.

Through the narrow slit between stone and shadow, he watched as a towering golden figure strode into the village square—armor gleaming like sunlight forged into plates, a divine insignia etched across his chest.

An angel. At least, that’s what the villagers called them.

The golden giant raised one armored leg and kicked the village chief to the ground.

The old man crumpled instantly, hitting the dirt with a harsh gasp.

“No heroes have been born?” the angel demanded.

The village chief coughed, blood flecking his lip. His face was already bruised, swollen around one eye. He trembled from head to toe.

“R-Really! None, I swear! Lord Angel—our village hasn’t had a hero born in hundreds of cosmic days! Please, forgive us!”

The angel leaned forward, his armored boot pressing down hard on the old man’s back.

“None?” he said again, sharper this time.

“Truly! Please, Lord Angel, check for yourself!” the chief begged.

The angel didn’t remove his foot.

Instead, he reached into a pouch at his side and withdrew a small metallic device—circular, with glowing runes and a screen pulsing red.

“Then explain this.”

He held it out, letting the village chief see.

Dozens of crimson dots blinked on the display, clustered right over the village.

Heroic signatures.

The village chief’s face drained of color. “This… this…”

“Let me tell you why.” The angel’s voice dropped, and with it came something far colder.

“Because of the barrier surrounding this village. Because you’ve made a pact with the Void, haven’t you?”

He sneered.

“Too bad the god you worship doesn’t seem to be protecting you anymore.”

Then he moved.

The boot slammed into the village chief’s abdomen with a thunderous crack.

The old man’s body flew backward, smashing into a stone wall with a sickening thud before collapsing in a crumpled heap.