The Fake Player

Prologue - The Death of a Hero

Shirou Emiya, participant of the fifth Holy Grail War and the second incarnation of the Magus Killer, was dying. Or rather, it was more accurate to say that Shirou has been dying for at least two decades now and was only now feeling death's grasp clutching his neck.

At the ripe old age of 141, Shirou had lived an adventurous life. Not necessarily a good one, nor a fulfilling one but certainly an adventurous one. Especially in a profession that saw many good die young. Despite his true age, his body looked no older than someone in their late eighties. His once healthy and toned skin aged, wrinkled, and lost its luster. His hands, his pride, which once wielded great and power Noble Phantasms belonging to heroes of old were reduced to husks of their form self. Nothing but skin and bones. Innumerable scars and wounds littered his body, each one a tapestry with its own story and perils to tell. From a purely medical perspective, Shirou should not even be remotely alive with the injuries he's sustained in his career.

All in thanks to Avalon, the scabbard of Excalibur itself. Shirou has lost count of how many times the Everdistant Utopia has saved him from a life-threatening injury. It was for this reason that was keeping his body from breaking down faster than it was.

Looking to the side of his bed a small window adorned the wall, the only source to the outside world. In the past, a favorite pass time of Shirou was stargazing. Simply looking upwards, towards the sky and above with beautiful stars lightening up the night sky. Nowadays, it was considered a miracle just to see anything besides smog and polluted gas. The last hundred years haven't kind to the world. During the late twenty-first century, the rise of mega corporations and industrialization have nearly destroyed the Earth's vegetation and green life. Transforming the once lush green world into a brown and polluted mess.

It has gotten so bad that the populace needed breathing masks and goggles to prevent themselves from choking and dying to the polluted air.

"I wonder what is so interesting about the smoke-covered sky that you're always looking outside that window, Emiya-san." A deep but familiar voice called out.

Shirou showed no reaction to the voice. Despite his age and the degradation of his magical circuits and senses, his sixth sense was as sharp as ever. Honed through years of life or death scenarios. That and the man in question radiated enough potency that even a none magical entity would feel a shudder.

"Zelretch." Shirou spoke plainly. Without taking his eyes away from the drearily scenery.

"Emiya-san!" Zelretch exclaimed with a positively cheery tone.

Stepping out of the darkened corner of Shirou's room, Zelretch casually made his way to the center of the room. Casting a casual glance towards the vampire Shirou noted that his appearance hasn't changed over these long years. Many, himself included wondered if the Dead Apostle Ancestor wore anything else but a form-fitting dark suit with gloves covering his hands, and a mantle over his suit. His ashen gray hair slicked back and combed. He held the appearance of a well-mannered old man betrayed only by his glowing crimson eyes that indicated him as anything but human.

"It's been a while hasn't it? How long have we last seen each other? A decade? Two? It would seem time hasn't been kind to you Emiya-san unlike me?" The vampire joked. Again, Shirou ignored him.

"Would you care for some pudding?" Reaching into his pocket Zelretch pulled out a nondescript cup of pudding. The bed-ridden magus showed no reaction to his question.