Shirou Emiya — Doesn't Want to Work Overtime!

"Hey, stop! If you crash at that speed, it won't be a joke!"

Running straight through a dense forest at such reckless speeds—even if the guy could dodge every tree at the last possible instant, it only took one slip-up for disaster to strike.

Besides, he seemed to relish the thrill, constantly swerving away at the very last second, relying solely on his impossibly flexible body.

Shirou suddenly recalled those crash test demonstrations he'd seen on television.

If he actually hits a tree, he'll end up worse off than those mangled cars!

Shirou wasn't afraid of getting hit himself—he was confident in his ability to dodge—but he was genuinely concerned that the stranger's dangerous antics might severely injure himself.

"Then stop standing in my way!"

The man wearing a boar's head mask completely ignored Shirou's warnings, pushing himself to accelerate even more. His powerful movements whipped up gusts that shook leaves all around him.

"Damn it!"

Seeing the masked man hurtling directly toward him, Shirou immediately dodged to the side. He certainly wasn't about to stand there and wait to be hit.

"You're part of the Demon Slayer Corps?"

Seemingly noticing the brilliant crimson Nichirin blade in Shirou's hand, the boar-headed man abruptly twisted his body, skidding to a halt, carving two deep gouges into the earth. Wisps of smoke rose from the friction-heated tracks.

"Your sword—I'm taking it! Just one blade feels way too weird!"

His gruff voice succinctly declared his intentions. Then, snorting hot breath through the boar mask, he raised his own jagged Nichirin blade and pointed it directly at Shirou.

Is everyone in the Demon Slayer Corps this impossible to talk to? Shirou inwardly groaned, recalling his recent encounters. First Rengoku-san, now this bizarre swordsman—both spoke in riddles, completely baffling him.

"Wait a minute!"

Shirou reached out, trying to stop him and ask some questions first. The masked man had explained why he wanted Shirou's sword, but the reason made absolutely no sense.

"Wait for what!"

Completely ignoring whatever Shirou intended to say—or the confusion his actions caused—the masked man gripped his serrated blade tightly, his figure abruptly disappearing.

In the blink of an eye, he reappeared in front of Shirou.

"!"

Shirou's pupils contracted sharply.

He's so fast!

Barely managing to raise his own red Nichirin blade in time, Shirou deflected the incoming strike.

"Would you please listen when people talk!"

Faced with the boar-headed young man who clearly wasn't listening, Shirou yelled in frustration, hoping to somehow get through to him.

"Interesting! This is getting interesting! Save the talking for after the fight!"

The masked man had no intention of actually hurting Shirou. He originally planned to stop his blade at the last instant, grabbing the sword from Shirou's stunned grasp. He had absolute confidence in his own bodily control and had no worries about accidentally injuring Shirou.

But seeing his strike blocked so effortlessly had piqued his curiosity.

Hearing such an unreasonable reply, Shirou had the urge to vomit blood from sheer frustration. If it weren't broad daylight, he might have genuinely suspected this performance artist was actually a demon. After all, who attacks someone without a second thought, unless they're a murderer?

The man hadn't left even a tiny gap for proper communication.

Shirou felt no malice coming from his opponent, only a burning fighting spirit surging like flames from within him.

"Hmph—!"

Twin jets of heated breath blew fiercely from the boar mask. A terrifying surge of strength erupted from the man's arm, instantly hurling Shirou backward like a rubber ball. Shirou skidded across the ground, struggling to maintain his balance.

When Shirou finally came to a halt, he realized his hand had gone numb.

The masked man shook out the arm holding his blade, clearly invigorated, and shouted excitedly at Shirou:

"You've got me fired up now! I'm Hashibira Inosuke! What's your name!"

In Inosuke's eyes, anyone who could withstand such a powerful blow had to possess impressive strength. After all, he'd put every ounce of his power behind that strike.

"Emiya Shirou. Actually, I think—"

Shirou saw an opportunity for dialogue and quickly tried to explain himself. However, Inosuke wasn't interested in giving him any chance to talk things through.

"Oh, so it's Tsuchirou (Earth Wolf)! Looks like fate brought us together! A boar and a wolf must fight it out—let's keep going! Unless you hand over your Nichirin blade, I won't stop!"

Laughing wildly, Inosuke charged toward Shirou once again. His twin, fang-like Nichirin blades glinted coldly as he swung them like lightning toward Shirou's face.

He wasn't worried at all about hurting Shirou. To him, someone who could block his initial attack would surely handle this as well.

"Ahhhh! Why can't we just talk this through!?"

Shirou lamented how impossible it was to communicate with someone who seemed to live only for battle. He really didn't want to fight this man. They were on the same side—why couldn't they just discuss things peacefully instead of always resorting to violence?

Shirou felt himself mentally breaking down.

Still, their exchange was clearly only a spar—neither used Breathing Techniques specifically designed to kill demons, instead relying purely on physical strength and skill.

Clang!

With a crisp sound, Shirou swiftly turned his Nichirin blade, parrying Inosuke's fierce attack and deflecting it aside. His body followed the momentum, retreating several steps.

Seeing Inosuke immediately preparing to strike again, Shirou quickly tossed his own Nichirin blade to the ground.

"Wait, hold on! You can have it—I don't need the sword anymore!"

Completely caught off guard by Shirou's unexpected action, Inosuke's movements abruptly halted.

"You're giving up your blade? Take it. It's yours now—I'm done fighting!"

Shirou genuinely didn't want any more pointless conflicts.

"How can you just abandon your sword? Our duel isn't finished yet! Pick it up! Keep fighting!"

Inosuke furiously jumped up and down, kicking Shirou's blade back toward him. But Shirou ignored the sword entirely, not even bothering to catch it. After all, Shirou had little need for Nichirin blades—he could produce his own if necessary.

"We're done—I surrender! You win!"

Shirou spread his arms in surrender, clearly indicating he'd dropped his weapon.

"Pick it up! Fight me!"

Inosuke appeared extremely agitated.

"Nope! I can't beat you!"

"Yes you can! Keep fighting me!"

Inosuke grasped his boar mask, utterly baffled about what to do next.

Shirou realized suddenly he might've found this man's weak spot—his thought processes were incredibly straightforward. Seizing this opportunity, Shirou quickly rattled off:

"Look, you attacked me for my Nichirin blade, right? And now you have it, which means you've already won. Since you've won, you got what you wanted. And since you took my sword, I can't even fight you anymore. You win completely, mission accomplished—just take the sword."

Inosuke froze as if his brain had short-circuited. He dropped his own blade and squatted on the ground, counting something intently on his fingers:

"I won, so I took the sword—but wait, I didn't win..."

"But Tsuchirou doesn't have a blade now, so I did win—but wait, we didn't actually finish fighting yet, did we?"

"But if I grab the sword right now, that means I won?"

Inosuke became visibly confused, waving his fingers around uncertainly.

Shirou watched, suddenly intrigued.

"So...does that mean I won?" Inosuke asked uncertainly, glancing up at Shirou.

"Yeah, absolutely! You won!" Shirou confirmed enthusiastically.

"Hahaha! Then since I won, that means you're officially my new minion, under the Great King of the Mountain!"

Suddenly regaining confidence, Inosuke scooped up the discarded Nichirin blade, stood triumphantly, and pointed proudly at Shirou.

At this, Shirou once again felt his head throbbing.

"Wait, the Great King of...what mountain now?"