Shirou left the hall in complete turmoil. Hassan's last words echoed in his mind, gnawing at the very depths of his consciousness and making his soul tremble.
On his unyielding legs, he trudged through the dim corridors towards the fortress walls. More than ever, he wanted to break free from the suffocating embrace of the fortress, to inhale the burning, frosty air deeply, and then unleash every curse he knew. Out of the frying pan and into the fire... yes, perhaps that's the best way to put it.
Fate evidently thought that his life lacked enough adventures: training sessions, from which he returned in a state that some dead could envy, attempts to make any progress in magical studies, and just that one meeting with the vampire princess was enough to fill him to the brim. And as if that wasn't enough, the Elder decided to drag him into an even larger and bloodier affair, not just drag him in, but place him at the forefront!
What was this necessary for? And why was the choice made specifically for him?
— Another question without an answer... — he muttered irritably to himself, wearily touching his nose.
— Maybe you're not asking the right questions? — a familiar voice cautiously suggested.
Shirou was taken aback for a moment and internally cursed. He had become so absorbed in his own thoughts that he completely failed to notice that Hanam had been following him like a silent shadow the whole time. Had it been any of his enemies in his place, such carelessness could have cost him, if not his life, then certainly a very painful blow to the back.
And yet it was indeed Hanam. It was difficult to guess from his frowning expression what motives he pursued by following Shirou — perhaps, seeing the state of his comrade, he wished to support him, or maybe he was simply waiting for orders from the person who would soon head the most ambitious and complex operation, a delay in which was akin to death.
Emiya didn't want to speculate on these motives, just as he didn't want to think about the monstrous volume of work that awaited him. He longed to let go of these thoughts, if only for a couple of minutes, calming the buzzing swarm in his head.
— You don't have to answer, — Hanam said understandingly. — I dare not even imagine what's going on in your head right now…
— I doubt anyone knows the right words for this, brother, — Shirou agreed with a pained smile, forcing himself to gather his thoughts into a single coherent flow. — I am not in the mood to talk right now, Hanam. My head feels so heavy it's almost breaking my neck, — he sighed heavily, covering his face with his palm. — Here's what… send the crows to Damascus — the main base for operations will be there. Let all the local leaders of sections and fida'is know the results of the gathering and my appointment. I will need detailed reports on all their operations over the past few months… there will surely be information that will help us understand what we are dealing with.
— Damascus, then? — Hanam repeated thoughtfully. — Do you think this?..
— Yes, it will do, — Shirou cut in without a shadow of doubt, not wanting to enter into a debate. — And one more thing... find out where Jazar and Shadia are now.
— Are you... really sure that it's worth involving them in this? — the assassin replied with evident doubt in his voice. — I can still understand her, but Jazar... brother, he has a reputation...
— …A little better than mine, — Emiya finished for him. — But he is effective and will be perfect for the tasks I want to assign him. And brother... — his gaze became more severe. — Since you have decided to follow me, you should stop questioning my decisions.
— I'm not really questioning anything...
— I'm sorry, but your agreement or disagreement no longer matters, — Shirou interrupted him with a crooked smile. — It just so happens that your actions have clearly indicated to the others that you support me, and if I request assistance, you will still be appointed. Moreover… — his smile vanished from his face, and his voice became a bit quieter. — In Damascus, I will need a person who can secure my rear and act as a liaison between me and our other brothers. If they have to deal with you, our mutual work will be more tolerable not only for them but for me as well. Besides... you are the only one I will risk putting my back to.
— A dubious compliment, especially in light of your words, but… — Hanam sighed heavily, — I suppose I should have expected something like this.
— If there are no more objections, get to work, — Shirou nodded gratefully. — Tomorrow by noon, I will draft a rough plan of our actions, after which we will finish all the preparations and head to Damascus.
— Alright... and… brother, — Hanam hesitated for a moment, as if doubting the necessity of his words, but still said. — I know this probably doesn't mean much to you, but I believe that with you at the helm, we will achieve success.
— Your words are like music to my ears, brother, — Emiya replied with a smirk, involuntarily noting that those words sounded sincere. — But thank you… really, thank you.
Hanam silently nodded, then silently melted into the darkness of the corridors, leaving Shiro in proud solitude.
***
Standing on the fortress wall, Shirou let out a sigh of relief.
Finally, he managed to break free from the oppressive walls and was left alone, fully immersed in the blissful detachment that soothingly affected his already overloaded mind. Fortunately, it was already deep into the night, so there was no one on the wall except for a few guards who preferred to stand closer to the braziers. One could understand them, as the wind at such heights was quite strong, and the cold pierced to the bone. However, this was only beneficial at the moment, as this cold and solitude helped him cool down and gather his thoughts, which were plentiful in light of recent events.
Glancing around furtively and ensuring that no one was going to disturb him, Shirou pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from nowhere and, taking one out, lit it with an elusive movement of his hand. Taking a deep drag, he inhaled the acrid tobacco smoke and exhaled with pleasure. His smoking habit came from Kiritsugu, who had been smoking almost non-stop since their departure from Fuyuki, even at the moment when it became clear that he had only a few months left to live. However, the lifestyle of a hired killer itself compelled one to acquire bad habits, sometimes harmful to the mercenary, sometimes to his goals.
Unlike his father, Shirou was not a chain smoker, allowing himself to smoke only on particularly tense or bad days, which helped him at least a little to regain his composure. This was only the third cigarette he had smoked in this world. One was needed at the very beginning when he finally realized what he had gotten himself into, and the second after the battle with the demon in Tikrit. Both cases were something out of the ordinary even for his crazy lifestyle, as was the current situation...
Shirou took another deep drag and then exhaled noisily. The situation was developing in the most disgusting way possible. Even if he set aside his personal problems, the task set by Hassan was, to put it mildly, ambitious. On one hand, it was even a bit flattering to his ego, after all, not every day do you get the chance to not just touch history, but to actually shape it!
To have the opportunity to control the lives and fates of thousands of people... many would be intoxicated by such a prospect, but not Emiya Shirou.
He understood perfectly that this was not a gift of fate, but rather a nasty burden and a headache that did not attract him at all, just like all the collapsed responsibility that fell on him. He had always been a loner, used to solving everything on his own, and all his rare allies were merely temporary appendages that fell away with the completion of the task. And now he was to constantly lead dozens of people, calculate every step and the consequences of any decision he made, while also bearing the entire burden of responsibility.
He was not a leader and was hardly ready for such a turn in his career, but apparently, the truth is said: if you want to make the gods laugh, share your plans with them. Shirou had just begun to hope that he could advance in his personal goals even a step, when he was immediately thrown back in another direction. And now he had to change, learn new skills, and become someone he had never aspired to be. And this process promised to be painful and full of disappointments.
And if it were only about that...!
No matter how heavy the burden was.leadership, it was something one could come to terms with. Ordinary affairs, ordinary people, ordinary decisions, and an ordinary outcome... which suddenly vanished into the fog of uncertainty, as soon as Hassan hinted that things were much more serious than they seemed at first glance.
And as often happened, such "specificity" only spawned a heap of new questions. Who were these mysterious forces lurking in the shadows and interested in the crusade? What was their interest and what did they intend to do? And how was he supposed to fight against something he had no slightest idea about?! And judging by the words of the Elder from the Mountain, he was to shed no less blood than he did back then in Tikrit, in the city where he had to fight to the death against the quintessence of human decline, barely escaping with his life. And now he was not just to repeat something similar, but to... surpass it?
— God... what have I gotten myself into again? If I had known what lay behind Kaleid's proposal, would I have agreed or told him to go to hell? — Emiya whispered with evident doubt, extinguishing his cigarette and shaking off the clingy snow. — However, what difference does it make now? Here, it's either a pedestal or a grave... and there's no third option.
Throwing one last glance at the mountain peak, as if the answers to his questions could be found there, Emiya turned around in annoyance and strode back to the fortress. Sleep seemed to him the most reasonable goal under the current circumstances, and every minute of blissful oblivion was worth more than any treasure.
***
The Hanam squad hurried through the city streets, which were already engulfed by all-consuming flames. The smoke, ash, smell of burnt flesh, and charred debris made breathing so difficult that at one point they had to wrap damp cloths around their mouths to avoid suffocating on the stench.
— I still don't understand why we keep looking for him, — one of the fleeing assassins rasped irritably. — Look around, Hanam; he's certainly dead by now…
— We would be dead too if he hadn't come for us! — the commander sharply retorted, casting a glance at the others. He was aware that many shared such thoughts, so he added, in a more subdued tone, — If you're scared, Karim, you can turn back and run, kicking up your heels. I'm sure the mentor will be very interested to hear why you returned alone without completing his mission. I'm sure tales of your unparalleled bravery and self-sacrifice will become legends for generations to come.
If Karim or anyone else in the squad had a response, they chose to keep it to themselves, moving forward with resigned compliance.
To be fair, Hanam himself felt quite conflicted about this. After all, he had no attachment or sense of brotherhood with Rashid, as the man had always kept to himself, like a living shadow. Even when there were those who tried to bridge the gap for various reasons, Rashid never showed any initiative, either doubting their sincerity or shunning the company of others.
What a twist of fate that he had become their savior today. The assassin and the lone wolf, whom many despised and secretly hated, suddenly reached out a hand in their hour of greatest need, only to set off alone to do what they had all lacked the strength to accomplish. It involuntarily stirred feelings of either respect or at least shame for ever thinking of abandoning him after he had saved them. He wasn't sure if he would even be able to look the mentor in the eye, let alone face himself. Rashid could be viewed in many ways, but regardless of the kind of man he was, they owed him today, and damn it if he didn't repay his fellow brother in kind.
Along the way, they encountered groups of armed citizens throwing themselves at them with terrible ferocity, often turning on each other as well. Fortunately, there were not enough of them to overwhelm the assassins based on sheer numbers, making the townsfolk easy prey for their blood-soaked blades. Khanam never admitted it out loud, but a part of him felt a criminal satisfaction with every blow landed and every drop of blood spilled from those degenerates. Yes, he understood that most of them were likely unaware of the horrors they had turned into, but there was one "but."
Even if they had abandoned the city, leaving Rashid behind, Tikrit was destined to become a graveyard where all its inhabitants, women and men, old and young, would turn into a pile of charred or mangled corpses. He tried to convince himself that there was no one left to save here, that death would be a mercy for these unfortunate souls, and that Allah, in His infinite wisdom, would judge them according to their deeds…
Lost in these thoughts, they continued forward until the squad found themselves in the market square. At first, they didn't grasp what had happened, but as if the very air here was different, the assassins slowed down, straining to see through the smoke of the inferno, and soon laid eyes on a sight that filled them with horror.
— Die! Die! Who gave you the damn right to breathe?! — a low, hoarse growl, half-snarl and half-scream, cut through the cacophony of the blazing city like cold steel. This could not be the voice of a human, it was so dreadful, and yet they recognized its owner…
Their… brother… the one who had saved them today, stood atop a small hill of corpses, occasionally sinking into a pile of bloodied and mutilated bodies. His clothing, seeming untouched by fire or enemy weaponry, was so soaked with blood that it no longer absorbed into the fabric, instead flowing in streams from him or splattering everywhere with the slightest movement. His crimson eyes, blazing through the smoke as fiercely as fire, surveyed the surroundings with a hostile, otherworldly gaze, as if belonging to a butcher in a hellish slaughterhouse.
They looked at him warily, primal fear in their eyes. The ones to whom he had gifted another day of life. They knew they were no longer seeing a man, but something greater. Something teetering on the brink of human and demonic, an angelic guardian and a punishing hand.
In one hand, he gripped the neck of a woman, who desperately struggled to break free but only thrashed her legs helplessly, her feet barely touching the top of the bloody mound. A strangled gasp emanated from her throat, while her hands clawed futilely at the face of her executioner. Futile. A sickening crunch rang out, its chime cutting through the cacophony of hell, after which the woman slumped, her head unnaturally thrown back.
Casting her one last glance, Rashid disdainfully released her now lifeless body from his grasp, adding to his bloody harvest. Not a shadow of regret flickered in the assassin's eyes, only cold, all-encompassing malice. Moments later, his hand shot up with lightning speed, severing the arm of a peasant trying to attack him with a hoe. Fountains of blood spurted from both limbs, showering the assassin's face with fresh splatters, which he paid not the slightest attention to…
After a few more corpses, he finally noticed their presence, throwing an absent gaze that morally burned all the assassins and instinctively made them step back. For a moment, his expression became more focused, scrutinizing, as if Rashid was deciding whether or not to attack them.
Apparently choosing the latter, he barely nodded before turning his gaze to the newly arrived townsfolk. The sight that greeted them was so horrifying that something even within them seemed to flicker to life, and they hesitated to attack the man who had turned the square into a bloodbath.
— No one leaves the slaughterhouse! — Rashid yelled in that same otherworldly voice, as if pronouncing a death sentence. — Not alive!
And moments later, they began to die again…
***
Hanam struggled with all his might to banish the memories of that night.
What he had witnessed in Tikrit was worse than any nightmare, and it so happened that the assassin had been "lucky" enough to be at its epicenter.
He barely recalled how they had managed to capture Rashid, frenzied with blood, momentarily taking him out of the fight, and afterward fled… fled from this hell on earth without looking back at the dreadful wails and the noise of fire behind them.
On the way to Alamut, no one uttered a word. No one wanted to discuss what had happened, but forgetting the scene was impossible. The only comfort was that throughout the journey, Rashid had been unconscious, as no one could vouch for what might happen upon his awakening… no one could guarantee that another hill of mangled corpses wouldn't rise on the road to the fortress.
And the closer they got to Alamut, the more Hanam pondered what should be told to the mentor about this mission, but to his utter surprise, the mentor somehow already knew about the events, just as he was aware that Rashid had succeeded in destroying the embodiment of evil and staged the Judgement Day in Tikrit. And even though the mentor knew, he still demanded a full report without shades of gray or omissions, looking deep into the speaker's soul. The tension was so high that Khanam felt as if every word he uttered could be his last. And as it turned out, this thought was cruelly prescient: only he and Shadia left Hassan's quarters after the report, while the other members of the squad never emerged from there again.
The next day, he led Rashid to the mentor, and to Hanam's utter shock, his brother showed no sign of fear or catharsis after what he had seen. As if… as if the image of the blazing Tikrit was not new to him. As if he already knew…
— Is that why the mentor values you so highly? Because you looked into the eyes of Iblis… and were not blinded? — Hanam muttered thoughtfully, watching a raven fly off into the horizon.
— The devil has nothing to do with it; it's much worse, brother, — Shirou replied with philosophical indifference, causing Khanam to flinch slightly.
Turning around, he discovered that Rashid had been behind him all this time. He looked much better than he had during their nighttime conversation, as if a short rest had allowed him to conquer his doubts and find a way out of the situation they were in.
— Forgive me, brother, I was just…
— Don't apologize. I know very well what can't be forgotten, — Emiya waved off his apologies and beckoned him to follow, continuing the conversation on the move. — It's much better to focus on the present, for this time we'll be fighting far from blood-crazed cannibals.
— Judging by your confident tone, you've already thought of something? — Hanam clarified, mentally shaking off the image of burning Tikrit.
—You could say that, — Shirou confirmed evasively. — It's hard to call it a plan, but at least we have somewhere to start.
—And that is?..
—I'll tell you later when everyone necessary is gathered, — Shirou shook his head, then looked questioningly at his companion — Did you manage to find out where they are?
— Fortunately, Shadia is currently in Damascus. I've already sent a raven, so she should be waiting for us there. She hasn't been assigned any other tasks, so there shouldn't be any problems.
— And the second one?
— He... is waiting for you in the temple of Azrail. He said he wants to speak personally before agreeing, — Hanam replied reluctantly. — I think you'll find it interesting that he looked quite intrigued.
— Well, I have no doubt, — Emiya snorted, involuntarily picturing the scene before quickly dismissing it with disdain. — Alright then, prepare the horses and everything we need, we'll set off shortly. I'll go fetch this Jazhar...
— Be careful… — Hanam tossed to him as he turned to head toward the stables.
***
The temple of Azrail was just as he remembered it: quiet, deserted, and majestic in its own way. A strange atmosphere lingered in the air, fueled by the otherworldly glow of azure flames in the braziers and the bright aroma of incense. He had rarely been here, but he always found this place to be calming in its own way, as if it existed far away from the cares and troubles of the world.
— If there is an afterlife, I hope it is as peaceful as this, — Emiya thought, silently walking between the stone-carved columns.
Lost in thought, he failed to notice the glint of a blade hovering above his head like the sword of Damocles.
The assassin landed silently and swiftly swung his sword in a single efficient motion. Shiro jumped back, and the attacker's blade skidded off his oblique block. He instinctively counterattacked, binding both swords in a short dance and trying to disarm his opponent.
That was a mistake.
The assassin parried the attack and immediately crouched, aiming a strike directly at Shirou's face. Emia barely managed to deflect the blow and leaped sideways, spinning in a short pirouette to evade several thrusts, then jumped back again. The assassin charged at him, throwing a handful of sand into his eyes, then struck flatly from a half-turn.
Shiro dodged again, slipping sideways from his opponent, but he was aware of this trick. The assassin pivoted alongside him and struck again at close range, close enough for Shiro to feel his devilishly calm breath, slashing the keen edge across his chest. Pain flared through his body, but Shiro remained in the rhythm, slipping again, this time in the opposite direction, deflecting the blade aimed at his temple and, with a quick sidestep, attacked once more.
Steel sang its deadly tune, echoing through the stone vaults. Shiro felt time begin to slow down — he saw every strike from his opponent with terrifying clarity. He knew that the assassin surpassed him in speed and technique, but his resolve remained steadfast. He breathed steadily, controlling each movement and trying to anticipate the next blow.
A pulsing line of pain across his chest gently reminded him of the cost of the slightest mistake. The assassin employed short, efficient movements, minimizing risks. He danced with the shadow of death, maneuvering between strikes as if he knew them in advance.
Blades met, striking sparks in the dimness of the temple, then separated again. Time was not on his side.
In a crucial moment, their swords crossed, and Shiro poured all his strength into one last strike, pushing and pressuring the assassin, catching him off tempo. With a quick follow-up strike, he knocked the sword from the assassin's hands and, before he could react, pressed the tip of his blade against the killer's throat.
— Someday… someday I will kill you, Jashin, — the assassin uttered after a brief silence, snickering in a nasal voice as much as his hoarse breathing would allow.
There was nothing unusual in those words — it was common for him to be foretold death in this world, but very rarely did anyone do it in pure Japanese.
— Only in your dreams, Nanaya, — Shirou snorted, cautiously lowering Dainsleif and allowing his recent opponent to pick his weapon up. — And stop calling me that.
— Why? You still call me "Jazhar," "the butcher," if you will, so why can't I call you what our brethren see you as? — he asked with a sardonic smirk.
— Stop it, or I'll finish what I started, — Emiya retorted irritably, placing his palm on the hilt of his sword. — Get yourself together; we're leaving soon.
— If you enlighten me on where to, I would be immensely grateful.
— To Damascus. The Franks are coming from the west, wishing to reclaim Judea and Jerusalem for the Christians. Our task is to turn their naïve dream into reality, and you will help me in this. Such is the mentor's will, — Shirou briefly explained, heading toward the exit and placing a hand on his chest. Under the influence of magic, the shallow wound had nearly healed instantly. — And let's avoid foolishness, Kazuhiro. In this world, there are very few people I am not willing to kill, and believe me, your name is definitely not on that list, even considering you might still be useful for the cause.
— As you wish, brother, — Jazhar said with a grin as he obediently followed him.
***
As he approached the stables, Shirou saw a quartet of horses ready for departure, among which his black stallion stood out like soot. Hanam was waiting for them, oddly accompanied by another assassin.
He turned out to be a lean youth of about seventeen with a couple of small scars on his face. The moment he saw Emia, his eyes lit up with a strange solemnity, which was surprising since reactions to his appearance were usually quite the opposite. The young man's face seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't dredge up any details from his memory.
Pulling alongside Hanam, Shiro silently nodded toward the stranger, to which his comrade merely shrugged.
— Brother Rashid, — the young man addressed him, sensing the sudden confusion in the air. — I've heard about the mentor's will and decided to join you on this campaign…
— That's very kind of you...
— Malak. My name is Malak, — the young man politely introduced himself, not noticing Kazuhiro's amused chuckle.
— I'll repeat, it's very kind of you, Malak, but I'm not entirely sure that I'll need your help, — Shirou replied with gentle firmness. — The stakes are too high, and I can't trust this mission to just anyone I meet, even if I appreciate the enthusiasm.
— He joined us not long ago, but he's already proven himself well, — Hanam unexpectedly defended the youth. — I think he could be useful.
— Really? — Emiya said with slight irony. — Well, since you say so, let's put it to the test… — With these words, he pointed to the other end of the courtyard, making an unmistakable gesture. — You'll get just one chance.
Malak nodded determinedly and, drawing a crossbow from behind his back, headed towards the position indicated by Shirou.
— You surprise me, brother, — Hanam shook his head. — We are hardly in a position to throw away people, yet you set a volunteer a trial by combat? And for what? Seeking a bolt in the chest or just showing off?
— I said what I said, — Emiya firmly interrupted him.
— Funny… — Nanaya chuckled, watching several assassins turn their attention to this scene and curiously glance at them from the walls. — They say Jashin can knock an arrow from the air…
— A tall tale, — Hanam sighed, recalling where such stories originate.
— Let's find out.
The opponents took their positions about forty meters apart. Malak readied his crossbow, waiting for Shiro's command, who casually stood opposite him, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.
— Ready?
— Yes, — the youth replied without a trace of doubt.
For several seconds, dead silence hung in the courtyard, broken only by the whisper of the wind. Even the murmurs of the onlookers hushed in anticipation of the unusual spectacle.
The bowstring snapped loudly. Emiya swiftly raised an empty hand, from which a second sword seemingly appeared out of nowhere, intercepting the deadly projectile. Metal clashed with metal, and the crossbow bolt spun and whirled into the air. With a dry thud, it struck the top of one of the battlement walls, then fell helplessly down.
Emiya didn't see this. The moment his sword clashed with the flying death, he surged forward, rapidly closing the distance and raising his blade to strike. Seeing this, Malak lowered the crossbow and reached for his belt. Something gleamed dangerously in his hand, and Shiro instinctively raised his sword, barely managing to defend against one of the throwing knives, which clanged away. The second whizzed just above his ear, narrowly missing, while the third painfully sliced his shoulder.
Emiya winced but did not cease his attacks, next moving within a step of landing a fatal blow. The young man surprised him again, literally throwing the empty crossbow into the assassin's face. Catching it was not hard, but those lost moments were enough for Malak to draw a short sword and strike with broad strokes. The blade glided in a wide arc, forcing Shiro to instinctively retreat, feeling the rush of wind in front of his face.
Throwing aside his opponent's crossbow, he twisted around, delivering an upward strike to the thigh, but Malak spun away from the attack, aiming for Emiya's neck as he moved. To his great surprise, Shiro simply plunged his sword into the ground and struck his opponent with an elbow, almost knocking the weapon from his hand. Just a second later, the tip of one of the throwing knives—those same knives he had used against his opponent not long before—hovered near the young man's eye.
They froze like that for several seconds. Malak feared even to breathe, let alone move, as the knife's blade showed no intention of leaving the dangerous proximity of his eye, seeming to decide whether the test had been sufficient. Shiro was equally still, studying the young man and watching for his reaction. A clear fear was evident in his eyes, but there was also a special, doomed determination.
- Hmm... - Emiya mused thoughtfully before finally lowering his weapon, still casting an assessing glance at Malak, after which his stance became somewhat more relaxed. - That'll do. I hope you know what you're getting into.
The last remark carried a particular note of irony, as Emiya himself seemed not much older than his recent opponent, yet the difference in their experience was apparent even to someone not well-versed in such matters.
- I won't let you down, - Malak fervently assured him, picking up the crossbow from the ground, and then added, barely audible, - I will repay my debt, Hassan...
- We'll see, - Emiya nodded without much enthusiasm, then casually added, - Oh, right... it seems this is yours.
In the next moment, Malak instinctively jumped back as that very throwing knife buried itself in the sand at his feet, the one that Rashid had seemingly tossed mockingly at him.
- I hope this will be the last dance with swords today? - he asked the onlookers on the walls with irony. They not only did not respond, but realizing that the show was over, returned to their business. Following their gaze, Shirou looked at Nanaya and Hanam, who were standing some distance away, and then nodded slightly to the latter. - Then let's move; time waits for no one.
***
After that, their squad began a rapid dash towards Damascus.
Time felt like such a precious resource that wasting it on heartfelt conversations or sightseeing would be an unforgivable extravagance. Perhaps some of his companions wanted to discuss the upcoming mission, but the atmosphere was so charged that everyone preferred to keep their thoughts to themselves.
Shirou himself plunged deeply into contemplation, trying to give constructive direction to his thoughts, organizing the chaos that continued to swirl in his head. In his conversation with Hanam, he hadn't been dishonest—his ideas were difficult to call a plan, but... in their case, it was better than having no plan at all. Indeed, without proper specifics and outlining of the situation on the ground, it was hard to even sketch the outlines of future operations.
This burden of leadership, unexpectedly thrust upon him, weighed heavily on him since it was the first time he had to take command not because of circumstances, which was also a rare occurrence, but by a direct order from above. The stakes this time were much higher than usual, and failure was not an option. Moreover, these vague hints from Hassan... Emiya increasingly wondered how some people sought leadership positions anywhere. Did power and high status truly compensate for all this headache?
However much he could complain, history had already begun to unfold, which meant he had to ensure it turned in the right direction this time... preferably with the right outcome.
From time to time, casting glances at his companions, he mentally weighed their strengths and weaknesses, considering how to maximize their talents and which parts of the operations to delegate.
In Hanam's case, it was straightforward. He had initially been assigned the role of deputy and a sort of liaison between Emiya and the other participants in the operation. The assassin did not possess any supernatural talents (literally or figuratively) but was a good executor, had a decent understanding of the local realities, and simply was the only one Shirou could trust with the necessary minimum. There was indeed much work ahead, and Shirou preferred to be in the thick of it rather than moving markers on a map, which was exactly how he planned to challenge his companion.
Yet even Hanam, with all his pragmatism and loyalty, elicited a degree of concern from Emiya. Shiro understood that trust was an extremely fragile thing, especially in an environment where everyone pursued their own goals, often far removed from ideals of justice. But there were no other options or candidates. Hanam was as essential as air, relieving him of routine duties and allowing him to focus on the bigger picture and key aspects of the plan. He placed a lot of faith in Hanam, hoping he would not disappoint and would live up to the trust placed in him. After all, the success of not just this mission but perhaps the fate of their entire organization depended on the coordinated efforts of their duo. And Emiya was ready to do whatever it took to ensure that hope was not in vain.
As for Nanaya, he was... a much more complex person.
To some, it might have seemed strange that a Japanese man could find himself so far from the lands of Yamatai and even join a brotherhood of assassins. Meeting someone like him in the Middle East, now and in the future, was far from a common occurrence, especially given the current realities. Japan had always been marked by a high degree of isolationism, and its inhabitants were not particularly inclined to travel to the other side of the world. At first, Shirou could not recall why this individual's surname seemed so familiar, only after digging into the recesses of his mind did he remember.
Nanaya hailed from a clan of demon hunters that continued to exist even in the dawn of the new millennium, although with the fading of the Mystery and the advancement of civilization, their former role had faded, gradually turning them into a sort of hereditary aristocracy with peculiar... familial traditions. However, from what he had heard, the Nanaya clan was wiped out around the same time Shirou was just starting his career as a hired killer.
Kazuhiro himself was an ordinary outcast; whether he left by choice or was forced was unclear and did not significantly impact the matter. He had wandered much, working as a hired assassin, bodyguard, or even engaging in robbery until that slippery bloody trail led him to the gates of Alamut.
From what Emiya had learned, in the eyes of the other brothers, they were quite similar: both had a reputation as butchers and were looked upon with condescending disdain, though no one dared to openly display aggression. While this irritated Shirou more, Nanaya found such a reputation amusing. Unsurprising, of course—such a bloodthirsty and seasoned killer was hard to find, even among the far from innocent assassins.
Like Emiya, he embarked on rather heavy and risky missions aimed at individuals who did not skimp on quality security. Nevertheless, just like Shirou, he eliminated practically everyone who dared to stand between him and his target, ensuring maximum terror and cutting off any chance for anyone to take the vacant place of the victim.
Alamut accepted him without unnecessary questions. It seemed that Kazuhiro's reputation had preceded him so far that there was no doubt about his skills, and his past... was secondary. In Alamut, efficiency was valued over morality. And Nanaya himself frankly didn't care who and for what goals he was killing. He methodically carried out his work, honing his skills and becoming even deadlier. It reached the point where his name would involuntarily pop up in casual conversations, instilling fear and respect.
They did not cross paths all that often, and sometimes Emiya suspected this was done intentionally: the others feared that two such butchers could create a bloody slaughter at some point, leaving no chance for anyone else but Hassan. Shirou, of course, regarded this as utter nonsense, but to his displeasure, Kazuhiro held a certain professional respect for him, acknowledging his skill. This created a unique dynamic between them. Perhaps deep down, Nanaya harbored a sense of loneliness, seeking out someone he considered similar to himself, as if Shirou were his kindred spirit. Or, more likely, he was far from sentimental and was simply pursuing his personal goals, turning Shiro into a coveted trophy, if only because, as is known, two leopards don't share the same hall.
The decision to take him along was contentious; however, despite Kazuhiro's specific character, one could not deny his excellent combat skills and reliability. Additionally, he was knowledgeable about magic and various monstrosities, although most of his knowledge might not be applicable in local realities, even scant insights could be useful in case of unforeseen supernatural circumstances. And there was no doubt in the mercenary's mind that they would encounter such circumstances.
Far more questions arose about the last member of their small squad. Gazing at Malak's features, Emiya couldn't shake the feeling that he had met him before, and it was not just some random encounter in a corridor, but something more significant. During one of their rest breaks, Shiro deliberately questioned Hanam about this, and it became clear that the young man had joined the order not long after the mercenary himself, about a couple of months before their ill-fated mission in Tikrit, and had already managed to demonstrate his worth, even if he did not possess any particular talents. Unpleasant thoughts were compounded by the fanatical spark that occasionally burned in Malak's eyes, but which was not too rare among assassins.
But where does such zeal come from? It's unlikely that it was solely Hassan's will and the significance of their mission; otherwise, a whole squad of fanatically inclined youths would have been waiting by the stables. Yes, such initiative was heartening, for much could be achieved with it, but the lack of clear reasons for this fervor raised more suspicions than goodwill. It was especially troubling that this enthusiasm came from a person about whom Shirou knew nothing, yet he was acutely aware that he had encountered him before. The mercenary sensed that the thread of truth was nearby; he just needed to find its end to reveal all the answers before him.
Of course, he could have simply asked him during one of their breaks to dispel his suspicions, but a somewhat adventurous part of Shiro wished to leave it as a last resort, allowing him to dig for the truth himself.
Moreover, he was not a significant variable in the equation. An extra pair of willing hands could indeed come in handy, and in a critical situation, he could always be disposed of without hesitation, at least until he proved himself worthy in Shiro's eyes.
Yes, it sounded rather cynical, but they were assassins, and people in this profession are far removed from sentimentality. It was just one of many facets of their trade, another item written in fine print. Furthermore, Malak had volunteered for this task, so he should have been fully aware of the risks; and if not... well, it seemed that this was the fate of an innocent lad. In a world where every moment could be the last, trust became a luxury, and cruelty a necessity. And so they all lived, fully aware that in the cold shadows that had become their home, there was no room for doubt or naïve dreams...
...But if he had known how this decision would unfold in the future, he would have left that boy here for the vultures to take delight in...
***
The road to Damascus passed without incident, prompting Shirou to exhale with relief. At least, troubles hadn't begun before they even started their mission, which was a comforting thought. Lately, problems had been much more significant between destinations than at the destinations themselves, which led Emiya to listen to the silence around him, as if fearing that another demon or an army of vampires might appear around the corner. But the landscape before them was surprisingly serene—the sun gently illuminated the path, and the wind whispered ancient secrets known only to it...
Damascus greeted them with vibrancy. Numerous merchants beckoned an even more numerous throng of buyers, camel drivers argued with their animals, and the guards lazily fulfilled their duties.
- Head to the local station, inform the raafiq, and prepare everything for my arrival. Today, I will announce our further course of action,- he briefly explained to his companions, after which the group split up.
Before the assembly, he was awaited by another important meeting whose results meant a lot for the mission's outcome.
Shirou habitually blended into the crowd, trying not to attract attention as he gradually delved into the narrow streets of the old city, where the scents of spices, incense, and roasted meat intertwined in a dizzying aroma. Here, in this maze of alleyways, he felt safer than on the open road.
Having passed through the bustling streets, Emiya found himself in a more deserted part of the city, where houses and mansions of particularly wealthy residents loomed here and there. He stopped in front of one such dwelling, remarkably tall and haphazard in appearance.
The façade of the house was a riot of mismatched windows, balconies, and protruding bay windows precariously intertwined, adorned with decorative patterns evidently created at different times by various artisans. The overall impression was more oppressive than grandiose, as if time itself were futilely trying to bestow some semblance of completeness and unity to the structure, yet defeat the chaos of the architecture was impossible.
Shirou smirked, adjusting the hem of his cloak, and confidently approached the wrought-iron gates, one leaf of which had forever frozen in a partially open position. There was neither a doorbell nor a gatekeeper, only a feeling of abandonment and long-passed magnificence. The rusty gates creaked as they opened, granting him entry into the cobblestone courtyard, further marred by architectural chaos. The garden, once meticulously planned and pleasing to the eye from any angle, had now turned into an impenetrable thicket, where ivy and wild grapevines ravenously intertwined, swallowing half-destroyed statues of nymphs and cupids under their grip.
Through the foliage and thick undergrowth, remnants of what was once a well-kept avenue were visible, leading to a massive wooden door. That was where he headed. The heavy bronze handle yielded with difficulty. Behind the door loomed darkness, smelling of dampness and the dust of ages. Emiya mentally scoffed at the resident's utter disregard for the most basic norms of order but continued on confidently, finding the staircase he needed and smoothly descending into a drier, yet more stifling space.
Before him stood another massive door, but before he could approach, a pair of humanoid creatures suddenly appeared from nowhere, with skin so pale and bottomless black eyes devoid of sclera. Both were dressed in shabby robes that hung on them like sacks, but Shiro knew very well how deceptive such appearances could be. The fabric, though worn, moved around them with an unnatural grace, seemingly obeying invisible currents of air.
- Stop, - rasped one of them, as if all moisture had been sucked from his voice. - There's no way further.
His companion silently nodded, confirming these words. In their gazes, there was neither malice nor curiosity nor any other emotions—only a dull, consuming emptiness.
Shirou sighed. Another obstacle in his path, and there had been too many of those lately.
- I don't have time for games. Step aside.
The creatures simultaneously tilted their heads sideways, as if he had said something that puzzled them.
- There's no time here, - the second one whispered in a tone that sounded like a sentence.
In an instant, Emiya's hand was on the hilt of his blade, ready to draw it from its sheath and reduce the misfortunate guards to dust, and judging by their tensed bodies, they were prepared to respond in kind.
The inevitable slaughter was interrupted by a low baritone that resonated as if emanating from every corner of the dim corridor.
- What is the name of the stone that burns? - the voice intoned.
- Sulfur, mixed with mercury, - Shirou retorted, releasing his grip from the hilt.
- What is the name of the universal solvent?
- Alkahest.
- What is the name of the cure for all ailments?
- Panacea universalis.
- What is the pinnacle of our art?
- The Philosopher's Stone.
- What is the name of the noblest of metals?
- Gold… and before you ask another foolish question, tell me, do you seriously think these two bags of bones can stop me? - he added with a hint of irony.
- Proceed, brother, - the voice responded, now softer and barely concealing a chuckle.
The doors silently opened, allowing Shiro, who had begun to lose his temper, to step inside, while the homunculi gracefully yielded to let him through, no longer daring to halt him.
The assassin found himself in a vast yet terrifyingly chaotic hall, where, paradoxically, one could feel an order of its own, though unseen. Shelves filled with bottles of colorful liquids, various herbs, and minerals rose all around. In one corner stood an imposing distillation apparatus connected by a network of tubes and flasks.
In the center of the room was a massive table of dark wood, etched with complex diagrams and symbols. Scattered across it were various tools: mortars, pestles, crucibles, and scales. The air was heavy with the scents of sulfur, herbs, and something less definable yet alluring in its own way.
The walls were adorned with scrolls featuring ancient texts and alchemical recipes, intermixed with herbariums of dried plants, a map of the starry sky, and tables of chemical elements. In the fireplace, a cheerful fire crackled, casting whimsical crimson reflections on the walls that enhanced the atmosphere of mystery.
The room's owner stood with his back to him, cloaked in a robe that once had been a symbol of luxury and pride, now faded as if forgotten in the realm of time. This fabric concealed the hunched figure of the alchemist and his concave chest, but the golden mask—his calling card and primary curse—gleamed in the firelight, instilling fear.
Once perfectly cast in gold, it was now etched with marks of corrosive acid and burn holes, reminiscent of unfortunate events. Shirou knew that one eye slit of this mask was noticeably larger than the other, hinting at a recent, yet-to-heal injury. The scarred skin surrounding the mask bore traces of burns, suggesting its dangerous proximity to combustible materials.
The alchemist's movements, though slow, revealed a hidden energy. Each step, each breath was imbued with the scents of sulfur, herbs, and something indefinably metallic. He was a mobile laboratory, a living testament to ambition and its tragedies, an alchemist forever ensnared by mad experiments that he believed would lead him to immortality.
- Was it really necessary, Balthasar? - Shirou inquired with a hint of irritation. - I thought I had done enough to avoid such checks.
- My apologies, but lately, the shadows have been growing darker, and the ripples on the water leave an ever clearer trace, attracting unwarranted attention. My work is too important to leave safety to chance…
- Ripples on the water? - Shirou asked pensively.
- Are you not aware? - the alchemist's voice tinged with surprise.
He met Balthazar Kallos just under a year ago when he was supposed to greet him in Cappadocia and escort him to Antioch. Balthazar was an alchemist who had to go on the run after a failed experiment that had left him disfigured. Their journey was long and exhausting, filled with dangers and unexpected encounters. During this time, he developed an involuntary respect for Balthazar, despite his eccentricities and aloofness. There was a sense of inner strength in him that did not fade even under the weight of his experiences. He was a man obsessed with his goal, and nothing could stop him. In gratitude for the latter's help, Emia gifted him a grimoire, which he had acquired in the future, hoping that it would one day be of use to him—a hope that did come true, though not quite as he had initially imagined. For this gesture, Balthazar felt a reciprocal respect for him and vowed that he would always be happy to lend Shiro a helping hand.
It might have seemed strange that, despite the Elder of the Mountain's antipathy toward magic in all its forms, he often provided refuge to individuals like Balthazar. But, as was often the case, cold calculation and the obvious benefits of such individuals outweighed personal feelings. In his citadel, carved into the heart of the mountain, there was a need for talents like these: architects, alchemists, healers, sages who could read and translate ancient writings… in general, anyone possessing talents inaccessible to mere mortals. Alamut was a place where the outcasts could freely exchange knowledge, strike deals, and simply lick their wounds without fear of being pursued by fanatics or hunters after their wisdom. Hassan, being a pragmatist to his core, saw this not only as a means to control a potential threat but also as a valuable resource. The knowledge these outcasts possessed could benefit his cause, and although he did not approve of their line of work, he recognized their necessity in a complex and unpredictable world.
And Balthazar was one of those outcasts…
— Not aware of what? — Emiya cautiously inquired.
— After… your actions and the defeat of the Cult of the Jagged Sun, things have become… unsettled in these parts, — Balthazar began, choosing his words carefully. — Strange rumors are circulating about murderous cultists from Egypt… about desecrated graves and hordes of the dead who have been denied rest. Far from the big cities, people are afraid to sleep at night, fearing they may not wake up as they once were.
— Are you talking about necromancy? — Shirou asked in a whispered hiss.
— I'm merely relaying what I've heard, brother… — the alchemist replied evasively, returning to his interrupted work. — But you didn't come to talk about that, did you?
— No, there is something more tangible than rumors of necromancers. I'm sure you're already aware of the impending Frankish army, as well as the fact that the mentor has made a decision regarding it.
— Politics do not interest me, you know that…
— Yes, but it has become a major concern for me lately, — Emiya huffed in frustration. — And now I have to deal with all of this, but I can't bear such a burden alone.
— I see… you're remembering me in your hour of need? — Shirou could not see his face, but he was ready to swear that the alchemist allowed himself a condescending smile.
— Let's set aside irony and get to the point, Balthazar. Time is slipping away like sand through fingers, and the stakes have become too high, perhaps even higher than we both think, — the assassin said coldly, unwilling to engage in debate. — The world as we know it balances on the edge of chaos, and only our actions will determine whether it plunges into the abyss or receives a chance for something greater. I know you're used to benefiting from your actions, but this time it's not about power or wealth; it's about destiny. So tell me, are you ready to accept this challenge?
The alchemist remained silent for a long time. The crackling fire in the hearth could be heard as the shadows in the corners of the hall deepened, as if waiting for the master's decision.
— For someone notorious as a bloodthirsty butcher, you surprisingly handle words quite well. I daresay you underestimate yourself, — Balthazar remarked with a smirk, then grew serious in an instant. — Well, I promised I wouldn't turn away your hand in your hour of need, and I don't intend to break that word, but… I hope you understand that I am neither a warrior nor even an assassin? I believe the task before you requires someone far more…
— Don't worry; I don't intend to misuse your talents without necessity, — Shirou calmly confirmed. — And as for your role in my plans… let's just say you'll only have to do what you are so good at once or twice. Besides, I am certain that as an alchemist and a seeker of Truth, you will appreciate the irony of my proposal…
— Go on… — Balthazar said, intrigued.
***
After parting with the alchemist, who had reacted positively to Emia's offer (for the first time in their acquaintance, Shirou had managed to hear him laugh), he hurried to the meeting place, as he needed to get down to business without delay.
Evening Damascus greeted him with the whisper of the azan and the sultry wind sneaking between the ancient walls. Here, in the very heart of the old city, in the shadow of the colossal Umayyad Mosque, lay the refuge of the assassins. Not a glorious fortress but rather a chameleon, dissolving into the vibrant tapestry of the city. Secret passages, hidden rooms, encrypted messages carved into cracked stones—all this was just a fraction of their world. But it was within such walls, amid the dim light of candles and the aroma of spices, that destinies were shaped…
Shiro was about to enter the refuge when he caught a glimpse of movement on the roof out of the corner of his eye and glanced up. A figure, as light as the wind and as unnoticed as a shadow, had frozen at the edge, watching the evening city slowly drift into slumber.
It was impossible not to recognize her.
A smile instinctively appeared on his face, and thoughts of time slipping away receded to the background. They could wait.
Stealing a glance around and seeing no random passersby, he easily climbed up the wall, grabbing onto the ledges until he reached the roof, where he found himself beside the last invited guest.
— I see you're already here, Shadiya, — he greeted her politely, extending his hand.
The athletic girl with short, amethyst-hued hair and eyes the color of the night sky slightly flinched and turned toward him. Her skin was dark, as if woven from shadows, making her the living embodiment of deadly grace. Captivating was the only word Shiro could think of. Her name was whispered with reverence and fear even by the most celebrated warriors of the order. She was their finest poisoner, the femme fatale whose beauty lured and doomed enemies like moths to a flame. Her smile, promising paradise, turned into a harbinger of hell for her foes.
Every gesture of hers, every word was imbued with a carefully calibrated poison capable of paralyzing will and reason. In battle, she moved with cat-like agility, leaving behind only corpses marked by the subtle scent of bitter almonds—her signature. Her loyalty to the brotherhood was absolute, and her hatred of enemies boundless. She was their blade in the night, their poison in wine, their inescapable retribution.
— Indeed, the saying holds true: the more beautiful the rose, the more thorns it bears, — he thought as he looked at the still-surprised girl at his unexpected presence.
The girl who had been groomed since birth to become a living weapon, whose slightest touch could send a victim to Hell. Many whispered that standing too close to her was dangerous for one's life. Rumor had it that even her breath or a drop of sweat that touched some poor soul could cause severe poisoning. Reality, of course, was far less fantastic. The girl only had poisonous hands, which she mostly kept hidden behind gloves, otherwise remaining an ordinary person.
To Shirou, such rumors seemed utterly absurd. I mean… if they were even a fraction true, how was it that Alamut had not yet been wiped out with such capabilities? And would pragmatic Hassan choose to keep such a ticking time bomb among his people?..
Meanwhile, Shadiya remained silent.
She clearly hadn't expected anyone to come up to the roof, let alone that person would be Rashid. This was evidenced by the fact that her ever-present gloves were tucked away at her waist. The girl was taken aback, staring at his outstretched hand, after which she reached for her gloves, but Shiroy would not let her put them back on, swiftly and unobtrusively grabbing her poisoned palm. Shadiya gasped and tried to pull her hand away, but the assassin's grip did not allow her to do so.
He felt a vile and unpleasant burning across his palm, but after a second, the magical chains on his hand flared with a blackish-red hue, and the pain began to recede, as if being washed away by an unseen wave of coolness.
Emiya did not know how long this lasted, but it felt like no more than a minute before he released the girl's hand and looked into her eyes, which were filled with confusion.
- It doesn't affect me, - he reassured her, catching the strange sparkle in her eyes, and showed her his hand, which was already beginning to heal. - See? You have nothing to worry about.
She examined his hand with suspicion, but upon seeing the wound from the usually deadly poison start to close, she noticeably calmed down. Seeing her confusion, he added softly:
- Sorry, I shouldn't have done that. Let's go, they're probably waiting for us.
The girl silently nodded, put on her gloves, and followed him.
A chain of vaguely familiar long corridors and halls replaced each other until they finally found themselves in a room full of scrolls and several mismatched maps on the walls. Fidaïns scurried everywhere, whispering to each other, which made Shiro take a deep breath. The most unpleasant part of his work was approaching.
In the main hall on the second floor, the others were already waiting: Hanam, Nanaya, and Nasiri, who, to Emiya's surprise, had moved to Damascus.
Shirou exchanged greetings with him but did so carelessly, because the gaze of the trio did not escape the wound from the poison, which had not yet fully healed. Judging by their glances, quickly cast at Shadia, all three were well acquainted with the effects of her poison, and this could not but provoke a corresponding reaction.
- You... truly are something, Jashin,- Kazuhiro smirked, examining them with curiosity. - It seems... I'm starting to understand why the mentor pays so much attention to you.
- An interesting start, Rachid, - Nasiri said with a smile. - I hope your plan will be no less interesting.
- Yes, and it's time to announce it, - Shirou nodded, then cleared his throat and began his speech.
- You all know what's happening and why we're gathered here. I won't hide the truth: the task before us is, I dare say, monumental. Our goal is to ensure the successful outcome of the Crusaders' campaign in Judea. With words, gold, blades, and spilled blood. We will strike their enemies from the shadows, but I do not exclude that at some point we will have to come into direct contact to coordinate our actions and avoid... incidents. We are unlikely to be the only ones interested in this enterprise. Other forces, allies and rivals alike, are already weaving their webs. Be vigilant. No one can be trusted blindly. Success depends entirely on our cohesion, our ability to foresee and adapt. Every step must be carefully thought out, and every decision weighed. Therefore, I repeat: no contacts except those strictly agreed upon. No improvisation—only strict adherence to the plan. Failure... is unacceptable!
- Each of you was chosen for your unique abilities, and I count on your loyalty and professionalism, - he said, approaching the map and running his hand from top to bottom. - The task is difficult, and therefore, it will be hard for one group to accomplish alone. Each of you will form your own squad responsible for a specific type of sabotage: assassinations, intimidation operations, sabotage...
- First group, 'Ifrit', - he looked at Nanaya - Demonstrative killings, terror, and intimidation actions. Your target is not just the victim but everyone around them, including the most random witnesses, heirs, and deputies. In other words, the victim's death must not be continued, and their end should be so loud and bloody that it becomes a lesson for others. Leave no roots or escapes—only scorched earth. After the act, complete disappearance, dissolving into the shadows. No traces, no connections. Only the result: absolute silence and cessation of all activity related to the previous target. The chain of murders must be swift and crushing. And remember, fear is your best ally, which must be used wisely.
- I'm almost ready to kiss you, brother, - Nanaya grinned, baring his teeth as if a cat, clearly pleased with every word spoken.
- This isn't a solo act; you'll need more people, - Shirou cut him off. - And keep yourselves in check—we are warriors of Allah and guides of the Imam's will, not highway bandits.
- You can trust me, everything will be fine, - he replied with a smirk.
Shiro sighed quietly, once again questioning whether he had made the right choice with this man, then turned to Shadia and continued:
- Second group — 'Marid.' Your goal is infiltration, intelligence gathering, and the quietest possible assassinations. Ideally, everyone should think the victim died of illness or something similar. Poisons should kill slowly, or everything should be arranged so that no one suspects our involvement in their death. The main thing is perfection. No traces, no connections, no suspicions. The victim must leave behind only sorrow and confusion. Their death should become part of routine, a statistical anomaly, an accident. Their fall should look like a fatal mistake, predestined by fate. Kill orators, warriors, the powerful of the world. Show them and their followers that our hand can reach them even in their bedrooms, that they are mere mortals, that they have incited the wrath of something greater..."
- Understood, - Shadia nodded politely, to Emiya's slight surprise, as she had hardly left his side since their arrival.
- Good, next group —'Silat'- he addressed Nasiri. - Initially, I wanted Hanam to lead, but I'm confident you'll handle it better, given your extensive experience. No offense, brother.
- None taken. Honestly, it's even better this way, - Hanam replied without a hint of offense, with relief evident in his eyes.
- This squad's tasks are gathering intelligence, espionage, sabotage, and diversion. Does the enemy have a weapons cache? It burns from a careless candle. Is a convoy with supplies or wages for mercenaries moving toward the enemy camp? A small navigation mistake, an unexpected landslide, local residents mistaking them for bandit convoys—there are many options. A letter found by chance by an emir, accusing his best commander of treason or excessive ambition... spoiled food supplies, poisoned wells, compromised important persons. You are merely observers, recording facts. Diversions are chance, sabotage is enemy's work, information is the envy of others. Destroy their logistics, undermine morale, turn even hints of victory into defeat. I admit, it's not the most glamorous part of the work, but it's no less important, - Shirou summarized, to which Nasiri nodded understandingly.
- And what about me? - Hanam asked directly.
- Your task will be overall coordination and summarizing all information for me. Division is necessary to optimize efforts and minimize risks. Each group will communicate with you and be supplied separately. Overall leadership through me personally, or through you if I cannot be reached quickly or at all. No contacts or connections between groups—full autonomy. Mistakes are unacceptable. Remember, our names will be forgotten, but the work we do will go down in history. Act discreetly, act decisively, act effectively. And may luck be with us, for we will all need it, - Emiya concluded, glancing at those present.
- And what will you do personally? Nasiri asked curiously.
- As I said, coordinating overall efforts, searching for candidates to replenish our ranks, and handling those operations that suit me best, - Shirou replied evasively. - Any other questions?
Of course, there were questions, but most of them only clarified details of what had been announced. Those gathered were clearly overwhelmed with the information received and were already roughly planning their actions, which was a relief—thinking about it was better than suffering alone.
This marked the beginning; now it was just a matter of seeing what tomorrow would bring...
***
Shirou sighed heavily, but with relief.
The meeting dragged on into late night, as they had to work through and discuss many details of the upcoming mission, including restrictions and possible countermeasures. It was so unusual that by the end, he honestly had a headache, and after the meeting, he immediately went up to the roof, enjoying the coolness and silence of the night.
Rubbing his nose tiredly, he felt the pulsating pain in his temples slowly recede, giving way to a simple desire to rest. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily on him, but now, gazing at the starry sky, Shirou allowed himself a moment of respite to gather strength for the new day, full of unknowns and dangers.
Suddenly, the silence of the night was broken by a sharp caw, pulling him out of his blissful detachment from reality and making him turn toward the source of the intrusive noise. It was, predictably, a crow, persistently attracting attention by loudly flapping its wings. This was not one of the assassin crows, so he was about to shoo the random bird away, but his attention was caught by the strange eyes of the crow, shining with an unnatural gleam, hinting at something otherworldly.
Deciding to approach closer, he crouched down, leaning over the bird, which immediately stopped cawing and industriously extended its paw, attached to which was a message. Carefully removing it from the crow, which immediately flew away, he unfolded a small piece of paper with a bold handwriting that read only one sentence:
"The true rose blooms in the night silence, in the shadows of death and thorns—don't be late."
Emilia quietly cursed, instantly guessing who could have sent such an invitation, and the strange burning in her chest gave a very unambiguous hint.
- I don't know what awaits me, but I feel... that it's nothing good...