The World is finished.
Finished as in lifeless, dead, eradicated, ended.
The desolate landscape stretches out before the eyes, a haunting sight that evokes a sense of desolation and despair. A gloomy shroud hangs over the land, drenched with an eternal stillness that echoes the annihilation of all that once thrived in this place.
Hope is nothing but a distant memory now, a flickering flame on the verge of extinguishment. The remnants of humanity, survivors of the cataclysm, are now nigh-extinct. Their faces bear the marks of hardship and loss, etched deep into their weary expressions, now sporting lifelessness.
The air itself carries a palpable weight of despair. The souls of the few survivors are consumed by a profound sense of loss, their spirits crushed under the weight of what once was. The spark of hope that once burned bright within them has been dimmed, overshadowed by the overwhelming darkness that surrounds them.
The World had finally succumbed to the catastrophe of the alien beast, and the remnants of life tread through this forsaken realm, resigned to a fate devoid of any shred of redemption.
The unrecognizable land filled with craters, crystal-like substances, and scattered broken weapons, a defeated battle lay.
The scorched earth beneath his feet shouted a haunting dirge as if mourning the lost pledge of a vibrant land.
A broken man pant on his knees, his body filled with crimson stains, covered in blood and dust. He clutches his fractured side, feeling the throbbing pain intensify with each passing moment. severe injuries around him, a deep gash on his abdomen that continues to bleed profusely. The pain only heightens as Unlimted Blade Work's outside effects push its best to quickly heal him.
He tries to recall how he ended up in this dire state, but his mind is clouded by the chaos and destruction that surrounds him. Flashes of violence and chaos flicker through his thoughts, fragments of memories that offer no coherent narrative. All he knows for certain is that he must find a way to survive.
That is if he has any more energy to even summon another hundred blades.
The ORT is too powerful and relentless, its hard skin glistening ominously under the dim light of the moon. Its limbs move with precision and speed, a deadly dance of destruction.
With each passing moment, he realizes the vast chasm that separates his resilience from the lethality of the foreigner.
Said foreigner stilled equally battered and beaten, its further mangled body a far cry to its legendary designation; the hard skin that had once gleamed durable is now marred with deep deep holes and flesh dents, revealing the inner body that kept 'bleeding', its limbs, hang at unnatural angles, twisted and worn from the relentless explosive-type Noble Phantasms.
The foreigner’s outer skin, once pristine and impenetrable, is now pierced with the marks of countless strikes. Jagged shards of blades protrude from its frame, signifying both its vulnerability and Shirou's unwavering resolution.
The once deadly Dead Apostle Ancestor has transformed into a solemn mangle of wreckage, as the battlefield bears witness to the clash of two indomitable forces. Yet, it is still standing and is now limping near Shirou with its front claws raised.
Shirou staggers as he stands up, his blood-soaked and tattered Mystic Code clinging to his weary body, his strength waning. A wave of exhaustion washes over him, threatening to pull him into the abyss of surrender. His pulse pounds in his ears, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, fueling his determination to fight against all odds.
YOU ARE READING
Fate/Counter Order
FantasyA human reborn in the fire of corruption, grew with a body of steel, and be the fated Hero of Justice he was meant to be. Yet, he became the Counter Guardian as he was not meant to be. In the end times, the World did not survive an eldritch onslaugh...
