The holy man of the church creek

The trials part 4

It can be said that Shirou was used to such situations. In fact, it was particularly because of this that he could act before anyone else could.

He threw his sword.

With a resounding ding, the trajectory of the tip of the lance was altered and missed its course, hitting air as a startled Xenovia made her way to stand in front of the injured girl.

He on the other hand moved to intercept the approach of the other four-winged sentinels.

"Shirou!" Xenovia called, tossing to him the sword he had thrown.

It was the light-based sword the church had provided him. After tossing it, the blade of light had slowly dissipated until only the handle remained as without the infusion of will, its form could not be maintained.

"Thanks," he called, grabbing the hilt of the weapon and instantly reforming the sword.

"Aim well," the voice within the necklace spoke. "If you can see it, there's a spot between the armour that can be easily pierced. A flaw in the design not taken into account for those of six wings or less."

He could see what the voice meant now that he took the time to utilize structural analysis. The components that made it up were formidable. A type of alloy he had never heard of before, but was witnessing for the first time.

"When the angels first fell, none in Heaven had ever believed that a day would come that the source of their light would be used against them. This metal shell was the product and resolution of that problem," the necklace explained.

Regardless, his grip around his sword tightened before he drew in towards the enemy.

He did not possess Saber's superior swordsmanship, nor did he possess the confidence to be anywhere near her level yet, but he did at least have hers and Griselda's training.

Thinking on the subject, he wondered how those two were doing without him, but ultimately had to put such thoughts on hold as the winged sentinels struck forth with their weapons.

Timing was everything in a battle.

The images he had seen.

The battles that Archer had fought.

They weren't the memories of someone who's skill was unreachable. Rather,

He was simply staring at a representation of himself, and the ability he possessed.

Although he loathed that existence, the skill displayed was the extent of his own.

Trace. On.

His body flooded with power. An inner circuitry and framework of steel and iron that came to life in an internal explosion of fire. Ultimately, this was his path. A means until his end.

Left arm, two inches down, an inch to the right.

Strike!

His body twisted as he stabbed forth, his sword penetrating deeply into the first four-winged sentinel's chest and caving it in. Of the three four-winged sentinels that had come in pursuit of the girl, one of them exploded in a combustion of white flame.