Fate: But This Is Not Solomon I Know!

Fuyuki, Shinto — Hospital.

The air was still thick with the stench of antiseptic—cold, lifeless, and sterile, like the wandering souls teetering on the edge of life and death. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered in mute rhythm, echoing the fragile breaths of those barely clinging to survival.

Zoth gently closed the book in his hand, the soft click sounding strangely loud, like a hammer striking the silence that hung in the room. He rested his chin on one hand, eyes calmly watching the red-haired child slowly stirring on the hospital bed—the sole survivor pulled from the ruins of Miyama.

"Oh hey, you… finally awake."

His voice drifted like a passing breeze, half teasing, half whispering to the uncertain fate ahead.

Shirou frowned, lashes trembling faintly. He struggled to lift his heavy eyelids and caught a blurred silhouette beside him. After blinking a few times, he managed a raspy, broken whisper:

"…Who…?"

Zoth let out a low chuckle. He sat upright, leaned back against the chair, one arm lazily draped over his knee:

"Who I am doesn't matter. What I want to know is… how the hell did a brat like you get into Wonder World?"

Shirou dropped his gaze, digging through the ashes of memory already consumed by smoke and flame—but all he found were scattered, broken fragments…

Seeing this, Zoth activated his [Omni Visions]. A faint light flickered in his eyes.

The world twisted.

A new scene unfolded:

It was a peaceful evening. Shirou sat around the dinner table with his family, basking in the warm golden light that cast gentle halos on their smiling faces. But then—like a demonic hand tearing through a canvas—the illusion shattered.

A wave of malice surged in like a flood, drowning all of Miyama in mud and hellfire. Screams, sobbing, buildings collapsing—everything melted into a single, howling vision of earthly damnation.

The moment the first firefighter raised the alarm, Fuyuki's entire emergency system kicked into overdrive. Within ten minutes, every unit in the city moved like a military machine. Normally, such a rapid response would be unheard of—but for the past ten days, gas explosions, serial murders, and chaos had left Fuyuki strung tight as a bowstring. This time, they deployed everything.

But it was too late.

When they arrived, what greeted them was pure hell. The flames this time didn't obey the laws of physics—they devoured even steel and concrete. The seasoned firefighters had never seen anything like it.

And amid that inferno, a seven-year-old boy—Shirou—was writhing in sheer agony. The heat thickened the air into a choking haze; each breath slashed his throat like glass. Burns, rubble crushing his limbs, no oxygen—pain gnawed at both flesh and nerves.

Any ordinary child would have died.

But Shirou… still clung to life.

Then came another kind of torment.

Not of the body—

But of the mind.

It felt like something cracked open his skull, slithered into his brain, and began screaming:

"Your mom and dad are dead, and you crawl back here to die too? Hahaha! You're really that stupid?!"

"Look at those adults—they're safe, standing on dry land, spotless and smug."

"Quit being dumb. At least they're alive. And you? You're lying there like some useless piece of trash."

"And those thugs who beat people up on the streets? Now they're playing heroes? Hah! What a joke!"

The voice crashed into his mind like a curse, loud and sharp, like claws tearing at his sanity. In front of Shirou, a grotesque shadow took form—a twisted figure dancing through the flickering lantern-light of memory, pointing straight at him and laughing like a lunatic.

Shirou tried to make a sound—any sound—but every vein, every nerve in his body felt like it was on fire.

He couldn't speak.

Couldn't scream.

His body and mind were being crushed under a weight far beyond pain.

But that twisted creature, as if sensing the last spark of resistance flickering inside Shirou's soul, let out a peal of mad laughter:

"Hahahahaha! So you still want to fight back? Fine then—come!

Let me show you what they call… 'the true face of the world.'"

And then…

One by one, scenes began flashing before Shirou's eyes—like strips of cursed film, each frame a portrait of death.

They weren't natural disasters.

No…

They were calamities born of the human heart—

The raw, brutal instincts that surfaced when survival was on the line.

"Look here… these men, to save their money and lives, shoved two girls into a collapsing elevator.

Too bad the lift jammed—they didn't escape either."

"Over there—a boy abandoned his disabled mother in the middle of a fire just to run on his own."

"And here… a mother threw her baby away, just to save herself."

"Ahahahaha! So many! Too many to count!!"

The creature's shrill laughter echoed like broken glass against steel—digging deep into Shirou's eardrums.

And deeper still, tearing into his consciousness.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to cry out, to deny it all.

But his mouth wouldn't open.

His throat wouldn't move.

It was as if even his voice had been sealed away by fear itself.

"Stop thinking. Just sit there and watch.

The Ruler might be troublesome…

But you? You're nothing."

The monster growled through a cracked smile, its breath stinking of madness as it pressed more images against Shirou's mind—frames filled with blood, betrayal, and bottomless despair.

But more than fear—

They ignited something else in Shirou.

Self-loathing.

A disgust at his own helplessness.

His own weakness.

Just as his emotions were reaching a breaking point—

Whoooosh—!

A sword, wreathed in roaring flame, tore through the dark sky like a crimson meteor—

Shattering the false reality with a single strike.

It landed before Shirou—

The ground cracked like a spider's web, sending shockwaves through the prison of fear that had trapped him.

The monster recoiled, eyes wide in terror:

"W-What?! No—how?!

That sword… where did it come from?!"

The blade blazed with living fire.

But the flame did not burn Shirou.

It embraced him—soothed him.

As if the flame itself knew him.

Knew the soul of a child torn and trembling in the void.

Shirou's hand shook as he reached forward—

Fingers brushing the hilt.

The moment he pulled it free—

FWOOOOOM—!!

A pulse of scorching heat erupted from the blade,

the fire surged toward the monster,

slamming into it like a wave of judgment.

It shrieked in agony, stumbling back, step by step—

Retreating, burning.

But Shirou—

Was no longer the weak, helpless child from moments ago.

His eyes now burned with resolve.

With stubbornness.

And a belief that refused to break:

"You said… I was weak?

You showed me your twisted version of the world?

I don't even know how to argue with something like that…

But the very fact that I'm still here—

That I'm still standing—

That is my answer.

Don't run!

I swear—

I'll defeat you!

DON'T YOU DARE RUN AWAAYYYYY—!!"

His scream thundered across the sky like a god's roar.

And then—

The false world shattered completely.

No more monster.

No more laughter.

No more grotesque images.

Even the burning sword dissolved into light… and vanished.

All that remained—

Was a single small red book, resting quietly at Shirou's feet.

It glowed softly, pages flipping on their own.

And from within those glowing pages—

A crimson dragon erupted into the air, blazing with power.

It circled above once, then descended—

Its eyes locking onto Shirou, as if staring straight into his soul.

With a low, rumbling growl, the dragon wrapped around him—

Engulfing him in a swirling vortex of red flame.

Ahead—

A blue portal opened in the void.

The crimson dragon shot forward like a fire-tipped arrow,

carrying Shirou across dimensions—

Toward one destination:

Wonder World.

---

Zoth slowly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

His face bore a strangely serene expression—

As if he had just witnessed something sacred.

Moments later, he opened his eyes—

A starlight glint flashing within them.

He looked down at the small, confused figure in front of him.

And then, Zoth broke into an excited grin.

"Hahaha! Kid… I can't believe Rekka chose you on its own, instead of me granting it to someone.

You've seriously got that main character aura, huh?!"

Zoth burst out laughing, giving a big thumbs-up,

his eyes gleaming like he'd found a rare treasure on a battlefield.

Shirou could only stand there in stunned silence.

Still shaking from everything he'd just gone through—

and now this weird guy was making things even more confusing.

He opened his mouth, trying to ask something—

But Zoth didn't give him the chance.

"Become my disciple, Shirou!"

The man grabbed his small hand,

his face lighting up like he'd just been handed a divine artifact.

Shirou froze.

Those fiery red-orange eyes of his blinked wide in disbelief.

He didn't know if this was real or a dream.

"…Disciple? Me?"

Zoth nodded instantly, like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

Then suddenly straightened up, raised his right arm to shoulder level,

left hand on his waist—striking a dramatic, over-the-top pose—

and launched into his signature "recruiting speech":

"That's right! Allow me to introduce myself!

I am Solomon the Holy Sovereign—

Former Master of the Sword of Logos!

And now, I'm rebuilding the order from scratch,

seeking true talents with untainted hearts!

You, Shirou, are one of them!"

His voice echoed through the hospital room

like he was giving a speech in a grand coliseum.

Shirou tilted his head, blinked a few more times,

rubbed his own cheeks to make sure he was awake—

then stared down at his tiny hand…

Back up at Zoth.

Blank confusion filling his expression.

"…Do you have Chuunibyou or something?"

Zoth turned to stone.

His entire body locked up like he'd just taken a hammer to the skull.

A moment later—

"WHO'RE YOU CALLING CHUUNIBYOU?!!"

He lunged forward, grabbing Shirou's squishy little cheeks

and stretching them like he was torturing a rogue slime.

"I AM NOT! I WAS JUST GIVING YOU MY OFFICIAL TITLE! I WAS BEING SERIOUS, DAMMIT!"

Shirou wriggled, trying to break free from the iron grip of this lunatic,

but to no avail.

In the end, he gave up—his eyes welling up with tears.

"S-sorry… big bro… please let me gooo…"

Zoth grumbled and finally let go, crossing his arms in a huff.

He muttered like he was defending his honor:

"…Liking anime and playing games is completely different, okay?

I've never once had any delusions about superpowers or whatever…"

Shirou nodded furiously.

Quickly.

Repeatedly.

But then—

The smile on the boy's face faded away.

He lowered his head, eyes losing all light,

his expression collapsing like a flickering flame snuffed out.

Zoth paused.

He glanced sideways at the child, something complicated flashing in his eyes.

And just then—click!

The door to the hospital room quietly opened.

A weary-looking man stepped inside.

Hollow cheeks.

Heavy wrinkles.

Eyes clouded by years of guilt and regret.

It was Kiritsugu Emiya.

He stopped when he saw Zoth standing by the bed.

Suspicion flickered in his gaze as he asked quietly:

"…Ruler. You're the one who saved the boy?"

Zoth turned around, scratching the back of his head awkwardly—

like a kid who just got caught doing a good deed.

"Uh… yeah, I guess that was me."

He shrugged, then added—completely shameless:

"But hey, Kiritsugu, I was thinking of handing the kid off to you.

You know, adopt him and stuff. You get it, right?"

Kiritsugu's expression darkened.

He opened his mouth to object—

But Zoth was faster.

He darted forward and slapped Kiritsugu's shoulder hard,

his face beaming like he'd just offloaded a ticking time bomb.

"No need to say anything, Kiritsugu-papa!

Trust me, this Shirou kid's got potential!

Who knows—maybe he'll grow up to be the next Satan 2.0,

slicing through armored enemies like nothing!"

Kiritsugu: "…"

He had absolutely no idea what this maniac was talking about.

Satan what?

Armor?

Slashing who?

And before he could make sense of any of it—

BAM!

The hospital room door slammed shut.

Zoth had already vanished like the wind.

Leaving Kiritsugu frozen in place—

And Shirou sitting silently on the bed, still dazed and blinking—

A new life had just been decided…

In a way that no one could even begin to comprehend.

---

Fuyuki – Miyama Town, after the Great Calamity.

Once a peaceful, vibrant town glowing with warm lights—

Now nothing but ashes and cold, silent ruins.

Smoke rose in thick, choking columns,

blending with the stench of scorched flesh, blood, and wailing grief.

Firefighters, medics, and police swarmed the scene like a panicked beehive,

racing to save whatever scrap of humanity was left in this man-made hell.

And through it all, Zoth walked like a ghost—

Unnoticed. Unbothered.

His indifferent gaze swept past burnt-down homes,

twisted steel beams, and broken souls silently sobbing in the rubble.

He gave a dry chuckle, tilted his head, and kept walking.

But he didn't get far—

When a sharp, venomous voice cut through the chaos.

Arrogant. Condescending. And painfully familiar—

The kind of voice that made you want to punch the speaker on reflex.

"Mongrels… You dare show yourself before this king again?

Your audacity is cosmic."

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

A volley of golden Noble Phantasms tore through the air,

glinting like divine blades of judgment.

But Zoth simply leaned slightly to one side—

Effortless. Lazy. Not even treating it seriously.

He turned around slowly, eyes narrowing in distaste,

as if he'd just stepped on something revolting.

With a tired sigh, he muttered like someone genuinely fed up:

"Aiz… I don't know how you crawled back into that crusty old form again…

Pretty tragic, Pika."

Standing there—

Was Gilgamesh.

Golden hair, eyes like a red serpent,

draped in jet-black royal garb that practically screamed "bow before me."

Arms crossed, smirk curling with contempt—

As if the world was just some tragic comedy for him to enjoy.

"Did you think that strange power of yours could erase me?"

he scoffed coldly.

"Such blind confidence… Ruler."

Zoth twitched.

His eye widened.

He pointed at Gil, stumbling back like he'd been mortally offended.

"Oi! Pika!

Did you just call me… by my Class name?!

The hell?! Say that again and I'll bite your tongue off, dammit!

I don't do formal coming from you!"

Gil narrowed his eyes, tilted his chin up arrogantly.

"This king shall address you however he pleases.

If you wish to remain alive—shut your mouth.

And do not— ever —call this king 'Pika' again."

Zoth gave a grin—

Half serene, half sadistic.

Arms folded, head tilted, eyes glinting with mockery.

"Oh? If I can't call you Pika, then how about—

'King of Elbows',

'King of Legs',

'Mister Enthusiastic Civic Leader',

or… 'Simp King Supreme'?

Take your pick."

A vein bulged on Gilgamesh's forehead.

His face twisted with pure, barely contained fury.

His voice thundered like a storm:

"MONGREL! DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH?!"

Zoth still wore that "monk-enlightening-the-masses" smile,

one hand raised like calming a rabid dog:

"Now now, easy there…

Acting like that, no one's gonna want to play with you anymore."

Gil snorted, eyes like daggers,

his voice soft—but dripping with killing intent:

"…Ruler.

Stay alive.

In the next Holy Grail War—

I'll personally send you to hell."

Zoth didn't respond.

Just shrugged.

But his eyes suddenly darkened—

So cold, they could freeze the air itself.

"…Then come.

I'll be waiting.

Keep walking forward, Gil—

One day, I'll rip that rotten pride of yours to pieces with my own hands."

Gil stood silent for a moment…

Then chuckled.

A frigid sound, like a blade sliding into flesh.

"I'll be looking forward to it, Ruler…

Let's see what spectacle you can possibly offer that would impress this king."

And with that, he turned—

vanishing into light as if he'd never been there at all.

Leaving Zoth alone

Amid the scorched, broken remnants of a manmade hell—

His eyes locked on a bloodstained future yet to come.