The thief staggered back, clutching his shoulder where the dagger had embedded itself. His cloak smouldered from the lingering heat of Shirou's earlier flame attack, singed edges curling in the cold night air. For the first time, his composure cracked. His previously smug expression twisted with pain and irritation.
"Tch… you actually got me," he hissed, wrenching the blade from his flesh with a sharp grunt. Blood dripped steadily from the wound, pattering against the cobblestones with rhythmic precision. Despite the injury, his grip on his own weapon remained tight. In fact, the glint in his eye seemed to sharpen—as if he'd only now begun to take this fight seriously.
"But…" he smirked, raising the bloodied dagger. "You lost your only weapon."
Before Shirou could even process what he meant, the thief spun and hurled Shirou's dagger deep into the alley's darkness. The metal clattered far out of reach, swallowed by the night. Shirou's gaze instinctively followed its arc—but that split second was all the thief needed.
"Shadow Step," he whispered like a curse.
Suddenly, the alley exploded with movement.
A flurry of slashes came at Shirou from every direction. The world blurred, his vision struggling to keep up. The thief was no longer stationary—his body flickered like a shadow dancing through the moonlight. One strike came from the left, another from behind. Cuts bloomed across Shirou's body—thin lines of pain that added up far too quickly. His arms ached as he parried, muscles straining under the brutal assault.
"Damn it… he's too fast," Shirou muttered through gritted teeth. The thief's laughter echoed around him, bouncing off the walls like mockery.
"I was planning to make your death quick," the thief said, voice drenched in malice. "But now… I'll make you suffer."
Each strike was surgical. Not meant to kill, but to hurt—to wear him down. The wounds weren't deep, but they added up. Blood loss would finish him long before a fatal blow came.
But Shirou wasn't the same boy who'd wandered into this world weeks ago. He forced himself to calm his breathing. Panic wouldn't save him now—only clarity would.
His eyes scanned the alley. Amidst the chaos, he noticed something. Footprints. Faint traces on the cobblestones, some climbing the walls—erratic, but not random. There were patterns. Some places had more prints than others like favoured stepping points.
"That's it…" Shirou whispered. "There's a rhythm."
He let a blade tear into his side and ignored the pain. Another nicked his arm. He winced but endured. His mind honed in on the intervals between strikes. The angles. The spacing.
Now from my ten o'clock—another cut.
"If I'm right…" he breathed.
Suddenly, Shirou turned, ducking sharply just as a blade sliced through the air above him, missing his face by a hair's breadth. From below, Shirou's arm shot up—a dagger in hand.
The thief's eyes widened in disbelief. Shirou's blade came from his blind spot, burying deep into the thief's chest.
The force of his speed sent both of them skidding back, his momentum working against him. His breath hitched as he staggered, clutching his chest.
"Another dagger…?" the thief coughed, blood bubbling in his throat. "But… you missed my heart…"
But Shirou wasn't done.
He slammed his knee into the thief's gut, forcing the wind out of him. As the man doubled over, Shirou twisted the dagger free and delivered a brutal uppercut with his left fist. The thief's body lifted off the ground from the sheer force of it, limbs flailing.
As his body touched the ground, Shirou raised the dagger high, whispering,
"Inferno Fang—Flame Edge."
A surge of dark red flame enveloped the blade, roaring to life with a heat that seared the air.
With one final strike, Shirou plunged the flaming dagger into the thief's chest—this time right through the heart—pinning him to the cobblestone street. The man spasmed once… then went still.
"Happy now?" Shirou muttered, as he lightly patted his cheeks.
Silence fell over the alley.
Then—
[System Notification]
[You have defeated the enemy.]
[You have levelled up.]
Shirou stared at the lifeless body.
"I only won because I caught him off guard…" he muttered. "Thanks to the system's inventory, I dismissed the dagger earlier… then resummoned it right in his blind spot."
If the thief hadn't dragged the fight so long, Shirou would've been the one lying dead.
Before he could catch his breath—
[Selecting a skill from the opponent…]
"Oh, right. Skill extraction," Shirou said.
[Selecting…]
[You have obtained a skill: Phantom Mirage.]
He pushed that thought away for later. First, he walked over to the corpse and crouched beside it, rifling through the man's cloak. After a few moments, he found a small leather pouch. The sound of coins jingling inside made his brow rise in mild surprise.
"Gold coins?" he murmured, peeking inside. "Silver and bronze too. Not bad."
He also found a few small throwing knives, slightly curved for precision. Might be useful.
With a sigh, Shirou placed the pouch and knives into his inventory. The night had started as a quiet walk through the city—and turned into a life-or-death struggle. Yet here he was: richer, stronger, more experienced.
He glanced around the bloodstained alley.
"I should get out of here."
A surge of mana coiled around his limbs—lightning crackled beneath his skin.
In a flash, he vanished.
---
Back in his rented room, Shirou stood in silence, peeling off his damaged clothes. His body was littered with cuts, some still seeping blood.
"There are a lot of wounds," he muttered, examining a particularly nasty gash across his ribcage. "But nothing life-threatening."
Normally, when his level hit a multiple of five, he'd recover all his HP and MP, and his wounds would partially heal. But he was now level 36—no recovery bonus.
He summoned a small vial of ointment from his inventory, its faint herbal scent filling the room. Carefully, he dabbed the salve onto each wound. It stung, but the relief came quickly. The ointment wouldn't heal him overnight—but within a few days, the worst of it would be gone.
This world had healers—actual magic users who could close wounds in seconds. But Shirou didn't have access to one right now. This would have to do.
Once done, he sat on the edge of his bed and opened his status window. A familiar hum echoed in his mind, and the interface appeared before him.
Under the Skills section, a new entry blinked at him.
[Phantom Mirage]
[Creates up to five clones. Clones vanish upon contact or damage.]
"That ability…" Shirou whispered. "The one he used to confuse me."
He activated the skill.
"Phantom Mirage."
A shimmer filled the room, and an exact replica of himself stepped out from thin air. The clone's movements were perfect—posture, expression, even the small burn on his sleeve.
Shirou raised a hand. The clone did the same.
He gave it a mental command, and it responded fluidly—lifting his hand, walking in a circle, mimicking his actions like a well-trained puppet.
He pushed further, summoning more.
Two clones… three… four… five.
Five exact duplicates stood before him. He tried for a sixth—but failed.
"Five is the limit, huh?"
He dismissed the clones, watching them evaporate like mist in the morning sun.
The room grew quiet again.
Shirou sat down slowly, his breath steady now. He stared at his hands, still shaking slightly from adrenaline.
"Today… I almost died."
He clenched his fists.
"I'm still too weak. If I want to survive in this world… if I want to protect anything—I need to become stronger."
His golden eyes gleamed in the dim candlelight, no longer with fear—but with resolve.