Shinji Matou at Your Service-Chapter 1030: Shirou’s Encounter with Muramasa

The world was burning.

Of course, this was just a metaphor.

But at that moment, for the four people standing in the mountains outside Fuyuki City, it truly felt as if the world was ablaze as if the apocalypse had arrived.

The rolling flames surged like a tsunami, consuming the surrounding trees and engulfing the wooden cabin at the center. The firestorm was relentless and unending.

Burning, burning, burning.

The banquet of flames dyed the night sky a deep red, lasting for what seemed like an eternity, leaving the entire world in a single color.

No, that wasn't quite right.

Although it was subtle and hard to notice, at the center of this world of fire, there was indeed a different color.

Black—a deep, heavy black, darker than the night itself.

No matter how fiercely the flames raged, they could not swallow this blackness.

When the flames began to subside slightly, this blackness immediately started to spread outward.

It was like a waterfall of darkness, or perhaps a rushing torrent from a distant river.

Splashes of mud surged forth, quenching the flames wherever they passed, more effective than any fire extinguisher in the hands of a professional firefighter.

At the heart of this darkness, three tall figures, dressed in black, stood upright. Their grim eyes pierced through the fiery barrier, locking onto three of the four people standing at the edge of the inferno.

Each gaze was directed at one person.

"Your flames cannot overcome my Chaos," said Fabro, the master of this Chaos, to the elderly man with white hair.

"Hand over your Command Seals."

Roa, standing at the forefront of the chaotic flood, had his eyes fixed on Shirou, who was behind the elderly man.

"Surrender, Ryougi Shiki."

Standing further back in the torrent, Souren Araya's target remained the same—the woman who walked alongside death, the one connected to the Root.

"Even this didn't take them down?" muttered the young Shirou, who hadn't yet formally entered society. A shiver ran down his spine.

The elderly man remained calm, analyzing the situation.

"It seems their Chaos is the real deal. My flames can't consume it."

"If fire won't work, then I'll use my sword," Shiki said as she assumed an iaijutsu stance.

"Old man, clear a path for me. As long as I can get close, I can cut them down."

"That's possible, but I don't think you'll succeed."

The old man slowly shook his head.

"The enemy knows your abilities well. The previous attacks were aimed at limiting your power. I suspect their current strategy is also a trap designed to lure you in. Doing this is exactly what they want."

"Yeah, Grandpa is right," spoke up Ryougi Mana, the little girl being protected by the old man, Shirou, and Shiki.

"Mom doesn't stand a chance. It feels like something even more dangerous than Mom's eyes or Grandpa's sword is hiding near those three bad guys."

"W-What should we do, then?"

Shirou panicked.

The recent events had been constantly pushing Shirou's nerves to their limits. He was born into a long-standing family of swordsmiths, with his father and other family elders also being swordsmiths, making him the 27th generation of the family. He began learning the art of swordsmithing at the age of seven, and by the age of seventeen, he had mastered the craft. Following family tradition, his father gave him a trial: to independently forge a masterpiece sword.

Thus, he left his family home in Ise and returned to Fuyuki, where he had lived as a child, building a small cabin in the mountains to focus solely on forging swords.

That's when the unexpected happened.

One day, while forging, he accidentally cut his hand, and his blood dripped into the forge. The furnace emitted a bright light and then exploded.

When he recovered from the shock of the explosion, an old man had appeared where the forge once stood, critiquing the half-finished sword Shirou had been working on.

The old man criticized everything—saying the temperature was wrong, the force uneven, the number of strikes insufficient, and the materials flawed—completely tearing apart the work Shirou had been quite proud of.

Being young and impulsive, and having just endured an explosion, Shirou was furious and immediately started arguing with the old man, even declaring his name as the 27th Generation Muramasa, hoping that his family's history would give him some weight.

To his surprise, the old man became even angrier upon hearing the name. He took the half-made sword and knocked Shirou to the ground with it.

"Why did you hit me?"

Shirou asked.

"Do you even know who I am?"

The old man squatted down in front of him, his face cold.

"No, I don't."

Shirou, still dazed from the blow, instinctively shook his head.

"The name you're using—that was mine originally. And yet, with such poor craftsmanship, you dare use the name of Muramasa? Do you think I have the right to hit you now?"

Naturally, Shirou didn't believe the old man. The original Muramasa lived during the Sengoku period—there was no way he could still be alive.

The old man, who claimed to be Muramasa, explained that he had indeed died, but because he was such a famous figure, he had become a Heroic Spirit after death. Sometimes, such spirits manifested in the world in special ways. He then explained the concepts of the Holy Grail War, Masters, and Servants to Shirou—his bizarre summoning was a complete accident.

Shirou was utterly bewildered. The legendary Muramasa had forged the famous cursed sword, Muramasa, and his family, being descended from such a great figure, was naturally not an ordinary one. In his youth, Shirou had traveled across Japan with his father, crafting swords for various families, and had seen plenty of mystical things. But the existence of Heroic Spirits, Servants, and the Holy Grail was still far beyond his imagination. Even after the old man helped him read the contracts, stats, and true names through their bond as Master and Servant, Shirou struggled to accept it.

In the end, however, Shirou did come to terms with reality—because the old man used a method only a true swordsmith would understand. He took Shirou's half-finished sword and completed it right in front of him.

It took less than half an hour, but the old man produced a blade that even Shirou's father, the 26th-generation Muramasa, couldn't have hoped to match.

Throwing the sword at Shirou's feet, the old man asked, "Do you want to learn?"

"Yes, of course!"

Shirou nodded eagerly. He truly loved the craft of swordsmithing.

The old man stroked his beard and smiled.

"Your skill is lacking, but your attitude's not bad. Since you're so sincere, kneel and become my apprentice."

"W-What?"

The sudden offer left Shirou stunned for the third time.

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The old man frowned.

"What, you don't want to?"

"No, I do! But, according to seniority, you should be my ancestor. Doesn't that make this a bit..."

"In terms of status, you're still my Master, kid. All that other nonsense doesn't matter—either kneel and become my apprentice, or get lost."

With the discussion at this point, Shirou couldn't say anything more. He immediately knelt and bowed respectfully.

"Master, please accept my bow."

"Good. From today on, you are my apprentice," the old man said, as straightforward as the swords he forged.

"I don't know how much time we have, but I'll teach you everything I know. How much you can learn depends on your skill. First, we'll start with the basics of material selection. Go to the storage room."

"Yes, Master."

And so, the old man and the young apprentice began their intense, day-and-night apprenticeship in swordsmithing.