It wasn't for glory. It wasn't even for justice anymore. It was because he could still see the fire. He could still feel the heat of the city burning ten years ago and the hand of a man who looked happier to save someone than to be alive himself.
Shirou stepped forward. He didn't look back at Saber, but he felt her presence like a sun at his back. He didn't need to be a hero of justice to save the world. He just needed to be a boy with a sword who refused to let one person suffer. "Trace... on."
Under a sky the color of a bruised lung, Shirou Emiya stood amidst a graveyard of blades. This wasn't the Infinite Creation of Swords he’d eventually call his own—this was the messy, blood-soaked reality of a boy trying to keep a promise to a ghost.