The dining room was absurdly spacious—unreasonably so for just three people. A sleek, black metallic table stretched from one end of the room to the other like a monolith, cold and imposing.
At the far head of the table, seated like a fossilized king, was a withered old man.
Zouken Matou.
The most vile, heinous excuse for a magus in the Fate world. A walking corpse. A breathing parasite. A living stain on magic itself.
To his right sat the small girl—Sakura.
Her violet hair was now neatly brushed, tucked behind her ears. Her eyes, though, were still the same: dull, hollow, heavy with weight no child should carry. She quietly ate, each motion mechanical, detached.
Across from her sat a boy—same age range, maybe fifteen or so. He had seaweed-colored blue hair and an air of complete silence. Shinji Matou. Or... the body of him, at least.
The room was suffocating. No one spoke. The only sounds were the dull clink of utensils, chewing, and an unsettling wet squirming noise from Zouken's end of the table. The faint, pulsing sound of something writhing inside him.
It took everything in me not to gag.
When the last bites were taken, Sakura stood wordlessly and began clearing the dishes. She moved like a ghost, slipping into the kitchen next door without acknowledgment.
Zouken, as usual, said nothing. Old folks liked their silence, and Shinji—well, the original Shinji—would've stayed dead quiet out of pure fear.
But I wasn't him. Not anymore.
I was someone who had already died once. And this time… I had a chance to do something.
I cleared my throat.
"Ojiisan, I wanted to ask you something."
The ancient magus turned his milky, dead eyes toward me.
"Speak."
"I'd like to take Sakura's place."
His eyes didn't blink.
"I believe it's improper to entrust the future of the Matou lineage to someone who isn't of our blood. Sakura... she's not a real Matou. I am. As your grandson, it'd be more appropriate for me to receive your magecraft. After all, your current body isn't exactly... looking its best these days."
A pause.
No one breathed. Not even me.
Then, slowly... his lips twitched.
A horrible sound—a dry, soundless shudder—escaped him. Was he... laughing?
"And why," he rasped, voice creaking like rotting wood, "would I do that, Shinji? You have no circuits. No talent. And more importantly, what would compel you to ask for something like this?"
I leaned forward, my tone as calm as I could fake.
"Well, ojiisan... isn't it a little weird shoving your magical worm palace into a little girl? I mean—just my personal opinion here—but that's kind of against the law. And let's be honest, at this rate she's going to break long before the Grail War. If she cracks, you lose your vessel. You lose your chance at the Root."
Silence again.
Then—
Laughter.
Actual laughter. Dry, brittle, and disgusting.
"Ahhh... so some Matou blood does run through your veins after all," Zouken croaked. "You make a compelling case... very well. How about you take part of her training regimen instead? Hehehehe..."
Later That Night
"What the hell did I just do?!"
I paced around my room like a lunatic, clutching my head. "I don't want those things anywhere near me—much less inside me!"
I stumbled, colliding with the edge of the desk that sat parallel to the bed. A pen rolled off the surface and dropped to the floor with a soft click.
"Ah, shit—"
I bent to grab it, but still not used to my shorter stature, I misjudged the distance—my hand missed.
But then something weird happened.
The air rippled.
Right where the pen fell, a shimmer like distorted glass formed... and turned purple. The ripple deepened, swirling like liquid, then expanded—consuming the pen.
Gone.
I froze.
"Huh?"
"...Huh?"
Was that... a portal?
An inventory?
What the hell just happened?