CONTINUATION OF ETHAN'S PSEUDO-TRANSPORT TO THE WORLD OF FATE

CHAPTER 11

Ethan jolted awake from a half-drowsy haze, roused by a light touch and soft Japanese words. Lifting his heavy head, he saw the young man who'd shouted "Sakura" on the bridge earlier. The guy smiled hesitantly, holding out Ethan's rolled-up jacket and umbrella. Ethan's mood lifted instantly—he hadn't expected someone to trek back at two in the morning just to return his stuff. The rain had stopped, but the jacket would still be useful against the chill.

"Arigato," Ethan said, accepting his belongings.

The guy's light brown eyes—almost yellow, glowing faintly—met Ethan's, and his thanks seemed to catch him off guard. "Thank you," the young man replied in English, then launched into a rapid string of Japanese. Ethan, lost, shrugged. "Wakarimasen."

Through gestures, the guy's intent became clear: he was offering help, likely sensing Ethan had nowhere to go. It was a kind gesture, but Ethan hesitated. Was this just polite formality, expecting a polite refusal? Instead of responding directly, he pulled out his crumpled note and handed it over.

"Read this."

Under the dim glow of the park's streetlamps, the guy scanned the words. His face froze, eyes widening in confusion as he stared at Ethan. Maybe he couldn't read Roman letters, Ethan thought. So he read aloud: "Saber, Emiya Shirou, Kiritsugu, Fuyuki, Grail. Do you know any of these?"

"Watashi wa Emiya Shirou desu."

Ethan's jaw dropped. The odds of meeting the Emiya Shirou right off the bat were insane—unless "Emiya Shirou" was as common here as "Mike Johnson" back home. A minute later, the guy motioned for Ethan to follow, and Ethan nodded eagerly.

They descended the hill, crossed an intersection, and walked past a row of traditional Japanese houses along an asphalt sidewalk. They stopped at a villa surrounded by a three-meter stone wall. Shivering despite his jacket, Ethan paused at the gate, eager to get inside but realizing he'd skipped a step. Grabbing the guy's sleeve, he extended his right hand. "Chotto matte," he said, pointing to himself. "Ethan Thornton."

The guy smiled at Ethan's accented Japanese and shook his hand. "Yoroshiku. Watashi wa Sumisu Emiya Shirou desu."

Ethan grinned. "Great. No idea what 'yoroshiku' means, but we're officially acquainted now."

Stepping inside, Ethan nearly forgot to remove his shoes—a Japanese custom he'd overlooked. Shirou handed him oversized slippers and led him to a bathroom at the corridor's end. The house was spacious, its glazed engawa—a traditional veranda—lined with sliding doors to various rooms, connecting to other buildings. Ethan bathed, slipping into slightly small but wearable pajamas from Shirou. Despite his protests, Shirou guided him to the living room and, despite the late hour, prepared sandwiches and an omelet. As Ethan ate, warming up, he noticed Shirou stealing glances.

Damn, I need to learn Japanese fast. He's got no clue what to do with me, Ethan thought.

Twenty minutes later, he collapsed onto a futon in the Japanese-style room Shirou had offered, exhaustion from the day dragging him into sleep instantly.

Ethan snapped Elliot's orange folder shut. It was two in the morning.

That bastard, he thought. Dropped me right into the thick of it, bunking with Shirou. He's more Stephen King than shrink.

Elliot's imagination and writing skill stunned him. Doc should've been crafting fantasy novels, not trudging through psychiatry. Thinking back to their phone call, Ethan cringed at his own sharpness. Doc had shoved him into Sakura's route—deliberately—at a time when Saber was corrupted by the shadow. Meeting her now meant facing "Dark Saber," twisted by Angra Mainyu's evil. But Elliot had explained it well: wishing to enter a world didn't lock in the when. That was two wishes—enter the world and at this moment. Without precision, the Controller would twist it.

"Of course, I get it," Ethan muttered. Memory loss might even be the Controller's catch in Doc's scenario. As he pondered, sleep overtook him—restless, plagued by dreams of Saber, her lifeless, gold-flecked eyes staring back...