Anomaly Ch. 50

What did it mean to be a hero?

Ever since that night, when Shirou spoke with Kiritsugu, he had thought that an Ally of Justice was equivalent to being a hero. Or rather, that being an Ally of Justice automatically made one a hero. That all one had to do was to uphold the very values that a hero embodies - that is to say, to help those who needed helping.

Childish? Perhaps. Naive? Almost certainly. Yet, for Shirou, that simplicity was its strength. A visceral, core truth that had begun as embers in the crucible of his own survival from that fire. Kiritsugu’s regret and fleeting wish had ignited that ember into a smoldering fire in Shirou, a conviction that this path, this unwavering dedication to saving others, was the essence of heroism, and that that heroism was the one true happiness to be found.

It defined him, gave purpose to the life he led, the very same one that had been saved by that true smile from Kiritsugu.

It was all that truly mattered.

Up until the Fifth Holy Grail War.

That maybe he had been wrong had never crossed his mind. Thus, when faced with a grotesque funhouse mirror held up to Shirou’s deepest aspirations, Shirou couldn’t accept that. Heroic Spirit EMIYA was the embodiment of Shirou's own ideal, twisted and corroded by time, failure, and the crushing weight of endless, thankless sacrifice. Archer was the future Shirou could become. Would have become had his choices only been slightly different.

That vision was a direct assault on Shirou’s foundational belief. The realization that his cherished ideal could lead not to fulfillment, but to a hell of his own making, was shattering. The potential existed within the very structure of his unwavering resolve. Shirou recoiled violently, not just philosophically, but physically. He fought Archer, fought the future he represented, with every fiber of his being, clinging desperately to the purity of his original conviction.

And, against all logic and the grim testimony of Archer's existence, Shirou’s raw, unyielding idealism prevailed. In that moment of defiance, facing down the specter of his own potential damnation, he reaffirmed his path. He made a promise - to himself, to Kiritsugu’s memory, perhaps even to the mocking spirit of Archer. He vowed to walk this road of the Ally of Justice without regret. He would embrace the hardship, the inevitable pain, the sacrifices it demanded, but he would do so without allowing his heart to calcify.

He would become a true hero, defined not just by the act of saving, but by preserving the humanity within himself while doing so. He would carry the burden, but not let it crush his spirit. He would proceed without a heavy heart.

That promise, forged in the fire of self-confrontation, became his new guiding star. It was meant to be his armor against the corrosion EMIYA represented.

But somewhere, sometime, the armor cracked. The promise fractured.

Shirou couldn't pinpoint the exact moment. Was it a specific failure? A face he couldn't save? A choice forced upon him where every option led to suffering? Or was it the slow, insidious accretion of compromises, the countless times "saving the many" meant sacrificing the few, the erosion of absolute ideals in the face of messy, brutal reality?

He knew all of this, though. Reminded by it when his body had been turned back in time and forced into the same idealistic Shirou Emiya that existed all those years ago. And he had already resolved to fix things when he was done with his stint here.

However, that meant that he had to do one thing. To admit to one thing.

He was no hero. The ideal he had pursued with such desperate, single-minded focus - the mantle of the true Ally of Justice - was fundamentally beyond his grasp.

Every sacrifice, every ounce of suffering endured, every drop of blood spilled had been dedicated to that singular, shining path Kiritsugu had laid before him. To acknowledge its unattainability felt like dismantling the core structure of his being.

Yet, Shirou found himself doing precisely that.

But, contrary to what even he thought, he didn't do so with bitterness. Not like Archer, who had realized that Shirou woulnd't be swayed from his path. Because unlike the Heroic Spirit who had spent countless eons in service to Alaya, ironically, it was Shirou that had grown up.

The boy who clung to that impossible ideal beneath a starry night, the teenager who fought his own future to preserve it, they were chapters closed.

This understanding, this finality, was simply the next page in a story that had outgrown its initial, simple premise. In that sense, the scathing words of the prince standing before him held a kernel of harsh truth.

Shirou Emiya, the archetypal hero, was a fiction.

So then, why? Why stand here now? Why continue to help the slaves?

If he wasn't the hero he had vowed to become, wasn't this just another failure? Wasn't intervening, driven by the same impulse he now disavowed, merely breaking his promise all over again? Wasn't it hypocrisy layered upon failure?

No.

Had this been mere months ago, his presence here would have been automatic, dictated by the cold, unyielding logic of the "Ally of Justice." He would have acted because the role demanded it. There would have been no deeper justification needed, only the imperative of the ideal itself.

He might have rationalized it later - citing the greater good, the prevention of suffering - but fundamentally, the only reason would have been the internal compulsion: He needed to do it. He was made for this.

Now? The compulsion born of that broken ideal held no power over him. He felt its absence like a physical release. He was under absolutely no obligation, magical, ethical, or self-imposed, to help these people. Even the others involved, the elves, Lelei, the multitude of enslaved souls whose freedom hung in the balance, understood this reality. They knew he owed them nothing.

That didn't stop him.

Obligation had nothing to do with the impulse driving him now.

He wanted to help. He hated seeing these people suffering. He loathed the system of slavery in the Empire. Beyond the blade of Spartacus and the madness against slavery he could feel, Shirou felt.

This feeling was purely, fundamentally human.

It was Shirou Emiya, the man, reacting as any living, breathing person should react when confronted with profound, unnecessary cruelty. It was empathy, outrage, and a simple, unadorned refusal to stand by while others were broken. His hand moved, his body tensed, not because a role demanded it, but because his humanity could not accept the alternative.

He acted because he was Shirou Emiya, and that, finally, was reason enough.

…

“You’re nothing but a sellsword pretending to be a hero!”

Zorzal’s declaration echoed in the chamber, almost like a triumphant warcry. The only difference being the complete non-reaction of the audience to it. No, that would be a lie. The Emperor clearly had a reaction, and so did most of the Senate.

None of them were positive.

In fact, if Shirou were to describe it, it would be like how one would look at a particularly nasty piece of gum stuck under their shoe.

“Zorzal.” Emperor Molt rose from his throne. His temple was practically throbbing by now, and a subtle glance around the room revealed that most were avoiding looking at the pair. Shirou was almost left forgotten despite being in the same area.

The simmering fury Shirou had seen moments before had crystallized into something far colder, far more dangerous. His knuckles, still white on the armrests, seemed the only points of tension in an otherwise terrifyingly controlled posture.

Zorzal’s triumphant sneer faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion. He blinked, momentarily thrown off his tirade, "Father?"

"You disgrace this chamber." Molt stated, his voice low, resonant, and utterly devoid of warmth. Each syllable fell like a hammer blow in the sudden, absolute silence, "You disgrace your station. You disgrace me." He took a single step forward, descending one level of the dais.

Zorzal flinched, "Father, I only seek to defend the Empire's honor, your honor, against this-"

"Against what?" Molt interrupted, his voice still dangerously quiet. He took another deliberate step down, "Against a man whose actions, however inconvenient, stem from a strength you have never possessed?" Molt's gaze swept over his son, a withering assessment that stripped away any pretense of royalty, leaving only the petulant, entitled core exposed, "You speak of your soldiers, your banners, your spoils. You forget, boy, they are mine. They bleed at my command. They fly my standard. The spoils you claim are Imperial property, held at my pleasure."

Shirou watched, impassive. Molt wasn't just angry about Zorzal's defiance. No, that was almost expected since they were royalty. He was instead livid at the sheer, monumental stupidity of forcing this confrontation here, now, in front of the Senate. Zorzal had inaverdently revealed himself as a volatile, egotistical liability, incapable of reading the room or his own father.

And this was the Crown Prince.

Zorzal opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, perhaps to grovel, but no sound emerged. His face had paled from purple to a sickly grey. He looked less like a Crown Prince and more like a cornered animal realizing the trap had sprung. Shirou internally snorted. Well, at least he figured out he'd fucked up.

The Emperor's eyes bored into his son, "You will be silent. You will stand there. And you will witness the consequences of your idiocy."

Molt finally turned his gaze fully back to Shirou. The disappointment, the simmering anger directed at Zorzal, was still there, but overlaid now with a chilling pragmatism. The interruption, the insult, the public meltdown, they were factors to be managed. Shirou saw the calculation in those eyes: damage control.

"Chulainn." Molt stated, his voice regaining its Imperial timbre, "My son's...outburst...changes nothing of substance. The order stands. The slaves he unlawfully retains are forfeit to Imperial disposition, and I have disposed of them to you."

He paused, letting the finality sink in. Zorzal made a strangled noise but remained frozen under his father's glare.

“And, since it has come to my attention that my son has been spoiled by his victories, I am also disposing of the slaves taken during the Conquest of the Warrior Bu-”

“NO!”

Zorzal stumbled forward a half-step, hand outstretched towards the dais in a gesture that was part plea, part involuntary lunge. “Father! You cannot! They are mine! My victory! My right!”

Zorzal stumbled forward a half-step, hand outstretched towards the dais in a gesture that was part plea, part involuntary lunge. “Father! You cannot! They are mine! My victory! My right!”

Molt didn’t even flinch at the outburst. His gaze, fixed on Shirou, hardened further. The Emperor’s patience, already worn paper-thin, had snapped entirely.

“Silence him.” Molt’s command cut through Zorzal’s sputtering like a blade.

The effect was immediate. Two Praetorian guards, who had been standing like statues flanking the lower steps of the dais, moved with terrifying speed and silence. Before Zorzal could draw another protest, they were upon him. One clamped a gauntleted hand over his mouth, muffling the next scream before it could form. The other seized his upper arm with vice-like strength, pulling him roughly back from the dais steps. Zorzal struggled instinctively, a muffled, furious thrashing against the iron grip, his eyes wide with shock and humiliation.

He looked less like a prince and more like a common brawler being hauled out of a tavern.

The Senate remained utterly silent, but the atmosphere had shifted. The earlier discomfort and disbelief had solidified into something colder: judgment. The scales had tipped irrevocably. Zorzal’s value, already plummeting, had just hit bedrock. They watched the Crown Prince, the heir apparent, being physically restrained by Imperial guards for throwing a tantrum over slaves after publicly insulting both a guest, even though they still considered Shirou as nothing more than a Celtic vagabond, hospitality was still a sacred thing, and his own father’s authority.

Molt ignored the scuffle, his gaze never leaving Shirou. The interruption, the ugly display, was now just another piece of unpleasant business to conclude.

"The forfeiture is immediate." Molt stated, his voice regaining its steely composure, though a vein still pulsed visibly at his temple, "The locations of the holdings in question, both those originally disputed and those newly forfeited, will be provided to you by my chamberlain before dusk. Imperial overseers will facilitate the transfer." He paused, a fraction of a second, his eyes boring into Shirou's. "See that your...departure...from the capital is equally swift."

The unspoken threat hung heavy: ‘Take your prizes and go. This spectacle ends now.’

Shirou gave a single, curt nod. No gratitude, no acknowledgment of the Emperor's 'generosity' or his son's disgrace. It was a simple acceptance of the logistical reality. His goal, the freedom of the enslaved, was achieved. The political theater surrounding it was irrelevant, "Understood."

With his piece said, Shirou headed out of the chamber as quickly as he could. What he had thought would be a headache was less of one and more of a reality TV show. Still, he managed to get what he wanted without too much trouble, other than the ire of the Crown Prince.

Well, with how Zorzal acted, Shirou doubted that he’d retain that position. Hopefully, the Emperor nipped that in the bud before anything else happened. For now, he needed to go and tell Komakado and the others about the needed adjustments for even more freed slaves.

…

A/N: More introspection AAAAAAAAAA.