As we sat in deep thought, a sudden, mocking laughter echoed nearby—sharp, regal, and unmistakably full of scorn.
My heart nearly stopped when I turned and saw him.
Gilgamesh.
The King of Heroes.
The man who once sought to destroy the world using the Holy Grail now stood in our living room, golden eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.
Instinctively, I backed away, my pulse quickening. My eyes darted toward Artoria and Kiritsugu, searching for any signal—any sign of what to do next.
Kiritsugu looked like the air had been sucked from his lungs. His expression was dark, tense, resigned. Artoria, in contrast, stood as if frozen in tempered steel. Her jaw was tight, fingers twitching at her side, visibly restraining the urge to reach for her invisible blade.
Seeing her like that, I silently prayed a fight wouldn't break out.
Because if Artoria and Gilgamesh clashed here and now, I was almost certain no one in this house would survive—save perhaps those two.
"Ah, my beautiful flower… still radiant as ever," Gilgamesh drawled lazily, as though the thick tension in the air didn't exist.
At that moment, it became painfully clearKiritsugu and I were nothing to him. Insects. Fleeting shadows beneath his gaze. If either of us dared to intervene, we'd be dead before we could blink.
"Why are you here?" Artoria asked, her voice sharp and venomous, each word laced with steel. She didn't move—but her entire posture screamed restraint on the edge of violence.
Gilgamesh chuckled, low and amused. "You know why I'm here, my dear flower."
Then his crimson gaze shifted toward me. The amusement faded for just a moment, replaced by something heavier—ancient, sovereign, and deadly.
"I sensed a leech crawling too close to my flower," he said, each word calm but seething with disdain. "So I came to investigate what parasite dared test the boundaries of time."
He took a step forward, casual yet purposeful, as if already deciding whether to obliterate me where I stood.
"For a leech, you're surprisingly bold," he mused. "Every version of your kind—those who meddle with time—always attempt the same thing. Tamper with an anchor event. Nudge a soul or rewrite a fate. All of them believing they are exceptions to the rules I govern."
There was a flicker behind his eyes—something that spoke of uncountable timelines and unending patience worn thin.
He wanted to erase me.
I felt it like a pressure in my lungs, a weight behind my ribs. But for reasons unknown, he held himself back.
And I was silently, deeply grateful.
"Your idea… is amusing," he said after a pause, lips curling into a smirk. "Alter the boy just enough so he bargains better with Alaya—without outright breaking fate. Clever. Naïve. But clever."
Both Artoria and Kiritsugu tensed. I could feel the energy crackling off them. If one spark flew, it would ignite a war none of us could contain.
I swallowed, gathering every shred of courage I had.
"King Gilgamesh," I said with careful respect, "may I ask… why are you truly here?"
He tilted his head, intrigued by the deference.
"Oh? A leech with manners. That's new." He smiled, amused. "If you must know, I came for the boy. As much as I desire to raze this rotten age… I cannot."
He waved a hand, gold armor gleaming under the low light.
"If I attempt anything now, Alaya and Gaia would come for me. And if something were to happen to the boy… the Tree would collapse."
His tone shifted slightly at that last sentence.
"The Tree would collapse?" I asked, baffled. "Couldn't they… reset it?"
Gilgamesh's amusement vanished.
"You fool. A Counter Guardian is more than a hound barking on command. He is a Recorder—a mirror the world uses to judge itself. Alaya watches countless timelines through his eyes. He is how it determines whether to intervene… or to let the world rot."
He took a step forward. The room felt smaller.
"You still don't understand. That boy—Shirou Emiya—is not just a Counter Guardian. He is a fixed point. A scar carved into the center of the multiverse. If he is erased, too many timelines unravel."
He glanced toward the window, as if seeing beyond this moment.
"Cut out the rings at the center of a tree, and it rots from within. Shirou is one of those rings. His tragedy binds the branches of countless timelines."
"Why him?" I asked, barely above a whisper. "Why not someone else?"
Gilgamesh turned back, smiling—cold and knowing.
"Because he's perfect. A fool obsessed with saving others. A martyr who throws away happiness, body, and soul for a twisted ideal. He is Alaya's truth. Its eternal constant."
He looked toward Artoria. Her face was unreadable—but the pain in her eyes was unmistakable.
"You want to help him," Gilgamesh said, turning to me again. "To change him. Remove his chains. But understand this: take away too much… and he stops being Shirou. And the world… loses its anchor."
He stepped forward, gaze sharp.
"Do you still think you can cheat a system built on tragedy?"
I know he is challenge me. So i rise p
Up to his challenge .
I met his eyes. "If that boy is a mirror the world uses to judge itself… then that makes him more important than any king."
His gaze darkened. "You… dare."
His voice dropped into a low snarl, venom coiling in every word.
"You dare to look upon me—Gilgamesh, the King of Heroes—and compare me to that mongrel?"
The room trembled.
His crimson eyes flared, and the air itself seemed to warp under the pressure of his wrath. A nearby wine glass cracked down the center. The lights flickered. Shadows danced unnaturally along the walls.
"You mistake necessity for sovereignty," he continued, each word as sharp as a sword being unsheathed. "That boy—Emiya—is a cog. A tool the world uses to preserve its illusion of control. A mirror, yes… but mirrors reflect. They do not rule."
He took another step forward. I held my ground, but my breath caught in my throat.
"I am not a reflection. I am origin. The foundation of kingship. The weight that tilts the scale, not the one who is measured by it."
His eyes narrowed, burning with contempt.
"And you… you should be crushed beneath that weight."
Artoria moved without a word, placing herself between us. Her presence surged like a drawn blade. Across the room, Kiritsugu's fingers hovered near his concealed weapon, though he remained outwardly composed.
But then—unexpectedly—Gilgamesh laughed.
It was a deep, mocking sound. Not of humor, but of someone vastly amused by the gall of insects beneath his boot.
"You amuse me, leech," he said at last, stepping back with a casual flick of his cloak. "To possess such audacity… perhaps you are worth observing."
He leaned in slightly, just enough that his golden eyes bore into mine.
"But remember this—" he whispered, voice like thunder barely restrained. "Even a mirror shatters when it faces the light of a true king."
The air thickened again, tension coiled like a spring about to snap.
And then Kiritsugu stepped forward.
His movement was calm, deliberate—a man stepping into the storm, not to fight it, but to redirect its fury.
"You're right about one thing," he said, tone flat but firm. "Shirou isn't a king. He isn't meant to be one. But that doesn't mean he's beneath you."
Gilgamesh's smile faltered, just slightly.
"You see him as a mirror," Kiritsugu continued. "But what happens if you sharpen that mirror? If it stops reflecting and starts cutting?"
He took another step.
"Then it becomes the only thing in existence that can wound the King of Heroes."
A pause followed—long, electric.
Kiritsugu didn't blink.
"You want to judge him? Fine. Do it later. Let him grow. Let him rise. And if he ever reaches the height I believe he can… come then, and judge him with your own hand. Not now. Not here."
His voice was calm, but carried the weight of a challenge.
Gilgamesh studied him for a long moment.
Then, at last, a grin spread across his face—wide, sharp, amused.
"Hah… You dare toss such boldness at me, Assassin?" he said with a chuckle. "Very well. I'll indulge your delusions. For now."
In a flash of golden light, the pressure vanished.
Gilgamesh disappeared.
The room fell silent—like the echo of a storm retreating over the horizon.
Only then did Kiritsugu exhale, the tension leaving his body like a breath he'd been holding for years.
Artoria didn't move.
I couldn't speak.
And in the quiet that followed, the weight of what had just passed settled over us like a funeral shroud.
We were still alive.
But we had stared into the eyes one of the most stronger hero spirit.