The moment his body gave out, the world twisted.
Ren barely had time to brace before his knees buckled beneath him. The burning air left in the wake of the earlier battle now felt distant, blurred behind a growing wall of agony that pulsed from deep inside his core. His breath hitched. The ground tilted.
He collapsed.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud. Just a quiet fall, a body finally failing under the weight of wounds ignored.
His limbs screamed with pain—deep, bone-gnawing pain. His lungs felt raw, and every breath like fire dragged through his throat. Bruises bloomed beneath his skin, unseen but sharp, and cuts he'd long forgotten now throbbed like open wounds. His stomach twisted as heat surged through his spine, nerve endings alight with the agony he had forced his body to forget.
Threshold Limit had ended.
The wall he had built to hold back his suffering had shattered, and now every injury came flooding back.
The cold pavement scraped against his palms as he tried to steady himself, his fingers trembling so violently they barely responded. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat—somewhere between a cough and a gasp.
And then—hands. Soft, but strong. Steady.
Jeanne was there.
She knelt beside him without hesitation, her boots scuffing against broken gravel. Her hands caught his shoulders and guided him carefully against the alley wall before he could fall face-first into the dirt. She moved with practiced grace, her presence solid and grounding against the chaos inside him.
No words. No panic. Just the steady rhythm of breath and motion.
His vision swam, and the world spun in slow, nauseating circles. Each heartbeat sent new waves of fire through his nerves. His chest rose and fell in shudders. A small drop of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
He was breaking.
Jeanne didn't ask questions. She didn't demand explanations. Instead, she pressed one hand lightly to his shoulder, grounding him, while the other brushed wind-blown hair out of his eyes. Her expression was unreadable—neutral, but taut with unspoken tension.
Her casual jacket was dust-stained from the scuffle, but she didn't seem to notice. Her focus was entirely on him.
The city beyond the alley continued as though nothing had happened. Cars passed on distant streets. A dog barked. Somewhere, the faint sound of a train horn echoed. Life moved forward, blissfully unaware of the raw suffering playing out just a few feet behind reality's curtain.
Ren breathed. In. Out. In. Out.
Every motion ached.
The wind in the alley stirred, brushing softly over his sweat-slicked skin. He could feel it differently now—more than just a breeze. It whispered across the bruises, passed through the scorched threads of his shirt, coiled around his form like a presence. Familiar. Reassuring.
His connection to the element remained.
But it was faint now. Weakened.
He had used too much.
The air shifted again, curling subtly around Jeanne as she leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting upward as if scanning the rooftops. Ever alert. Even now.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to center himself in the rhythm of her breathing beside him. Steady. Unwavering.
The silence was a comfort. No false assurances. No unnecessary words. Just the reality of pain, presence, and shared survival.
Not the Saint people knew.
Just Jeanne. The one who had stayed.
And for now… that was enough.
Eventually, his breathing evened.
The shaking dulled. Not gone, but dulled.
The pain was still there—sharp, deep, and unrelenting—but manageable now. Enough to think through. Enough to feel something other than fire and exhaustion.
He opened his eyes again. The sky above the alley was a pale blue, cut by the shadows of buildings. The kind of sky that didn't care who lived or died beneath it.
Ren tilted his head, just slightly, and looked at Jeanne beside him.
She hadn't moved much. Her silver-blonde hair shimmered faintly in the dim light, strands framing her face where they'd come loose. Her expression was calm. But her eyes were sharp, vigilant, the pale gold in them burning like a low flame.
And then—finally—her voice, low and cool.
"…You're an idiot, you know that?"
He blinked.
She didn't look at him directly, instead keeping her eyes forward as if embarrassed by the words she was already regretting.
"You pushed yourself too far," she added, almost like a scolding. A pause. Her gaze finally flicked toward him, sharp and narrow.
This time, her voice lowered—quieter, gentler, though it still carried that edge of annoyance she used to cover up worry.
"…Does it hurt now?"
A simple question. But not really.
Ren didn't answer right away. He didn't need to. His clenched jaw and shallow breath told her enough.
"Tch." She rose to her feet, brushed her hands on her coat, and then held one out to him without looking directly at him.
"Come on. You're not dying here."
And though her tone was sharp, her hand was steady. Warm. Waiting.
He stared at her for a moment, then gritted his teeth, pushing past the pain enough to raise his hand and grasp hers.
She pulled him up without hesitation.
"You're heavier than you look," she muttered, eyeing the way he stumbled as he found his footing.
"Yeah, well…" Ren winced, straightening slowly. "That's just how it is."
Jeanne huffed. "Hmph."
They started walking—slowly, Jeanne pacing herself to match Ren's faltering steps. He didn't ask her to slow down. She didn't offer. It just happened, like everything between them somehow did.
The streets were mostly empty now, the chaos from earlier long gone, but the tension lingered in the air. Ren occasionally glanced around, the memory of blue fire and clawed hands still vivid in his mind.
"Are you sure you can walk?" Jeanne asked at last, eyeing him from the corner of her eye.
"Not really," Ren said. "But I'd rather not get carried again."
"Suit yourself."
By the time they reached Shirou's neighborhood, Ren was drenched in sweat. His legs barely moved, and each step was a calculated push against the lingering pain that pulsed behind his ribs and along his back. But he kept going. Jeanne didn't say much—but he could feel her eyes on him the whole time.
When they finally made it to the Emiya household, the wooden gate creaked open with a light push, and they stepped into the yard.
Shirou was already at the front door, waiting.
"Ren! You're late," he called, looking confused at first—until he saw the state Ren was in. His expression shifted instantly. "What happened?!"
Ren raised a hand lazily. "Long story. Mostly fire."
Jeanne crossed her arms. "He's lucky he had me."
Ren smirked faintly. "Yeah. I am."
Shirou rushed to open the door wider. "Come on inside. I'll get the first aid kit."
As they stepped through the doorway, Ren exhaled—a deep, tired breath. The warmth of the house wrapped around him, familiar and safe. And for the first time since the fight… he let his shoulders relax.
The warmth inside Shirou's house was almost overwhelming after the chill of the evening outside. Ren stumbled a little as he kicked his shoes off at the entrance, barely catching himself on the wall.
"Careful," Jeanne muttered, stepping past him with a glance over her shoulder. She didn't offer to help again, but her presence was close—close enough that if he fell, she could catch him without hesitation.
Shirou disappeared for a moment and came back with a first aid kit so large it could have been meant for a battlefield. Maybe it was.
"Sit down at the table," Shirou said firmly.
Ren didn't argue. He shuffled over, sinking heavily into a cushion by the low dining table. Jeanne stood nearby with her arms crossed, watching with a critical eye as Shirou pulled out bandages, antiseptic, and even some herbal salves.
"You're lucky you didn't break anything worse," Shirou said as he knelt beside him, inspecting the worst bruises and burns. "What the hell happened out there?"
Ren gave a weak shrug, his body still aching from the collapse of Threshold Limit. "Crazy lady with fire breath. Pretty normal day."
Shirou shook his head but didn't press further. He was careful, methodical—cleaning the cuts, wrapping the bruised ribs tightly, applying the salves with a gentle hand. Even so, Ren had to grit his teeth a few times to keep from flinching.
Jeanne watched the whole process like a hawk, her sharp gaze darting between Shirou's movements and Ren's reactions.
When Shirou finally finished, he sat back with a sigh. "That should hold you over. But you need rest, Ren."
Ren nodded wearily. He already felt the pull of sleep tugging at him like a tide.
"Come on. You know where the spare room is," Shirou said, helping him to his feet.
Jeanne followed silently as Ren made his way down the familiar hallway. Each step felt heavier than the last. The house was quiet except for the soft creaks of old wood and the gentle hum of night outside the windows.
When they reached the spare room, Ren paused in the doorway, hand on the frame. He turned slightly, glancing at Jeanne. She stood a few steps behind, arms still crossed, her expression unreadable.
"Thanks… Jeanne" Ren said quietly. The words felt heavier than he expected.
Jeanne gave a small scoff, turning her face away slightly. "I'm a servant, any servant would save their master."
Ren smiled faintly.
He stepped inside and let himself fall onto the futon with a soft grunt. His body immediately protested, but he ignored it, closing his eyes as exhaustion overtook him.
The last thing he saw before the darkness pulled him under was Jeanne, still standing just outside the door, her figure outlined softly against the hall light—silent, unmoving, almost like a sentry.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Ren let himself drift away completely, trusting that—for tonight at least—he was safe.
And somewhere beyond the veil of sleep, the memories began to stir.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
At first, it was silent. Weightless. Then, faintly, Ren heard it—laughter. A woman's laughter. Bright and soft, like a bell on a spring day.
He opened his eyes.
He stood barefoot on a dirt path lined with wildflowers, golden and brilliant under a warm sun. The sky stretched endlessly overhead, painted in vibrant blues, with white clouds lazily drifting by.
A memory.
No—more than a memory. It felt real. More real than anything he had touched in a long time.
Ahead of him, two figures walked side by side, their forms bathed in gentle sunlight. A man with unruly black hair, strong shoulders, a familiar warmth to his gait. A woman with chestnut-brown hair falling past her shoulders, laughed as she tried to keep pace.
His parents.
The realization was a punch to the gut, leaving Ren breathless where he stood. His throat tightened, burning with something dangerously close to tears.
His mother turned, smiling brightly, her brown eyes alight with warmth. She lifted a hand, waving him forward.
"Come on, Ren! Don't fall behind!" she called, her voice floating back to him like music.
His father laughed, nudging her gently. "Looks like he's daydreaming again."
Ren opened his mouth to answer, to shout, to run—but no words came. His voice was trapped somewhere deep inside. Only his body moved, legs pumping as he sprinted down the path toward them, his heart thundering painfully against his ribs.
He had to reach them.
He had to—
But no matter how fast he ran, the distance between them never grew smaller. They remained just out of reach, their laughter always a few steps too far ahead.
The path stretched endlessly forward, golden and inviting.
Yet something was wrong.
The sky, once vibrant, dimmed slightly—as if a shadow passed over the sun. The warmth in the air cooled, subtly at first, then sharper with each step. The wildflowers that brushed against his ankles began to wilt, their petals curling inward as though recoiling from some unseen threat.
His parents didn't seem to notice. They continued walking ahead, laughing, speaking to each other in words Ren couldn't quite hear. Their outlines grew hazy at the edges, their colors bleeding into the dimming world around them.
"No…" Ren whispered, his voice finally breaking through, hoarse and desperate. "Wait! Wait for me!"
The ground beneath him cracked.
A sharp tremor rippled through the path. Dust and petals flew into the air. Ren stumbled to a stop as a great, yawning chasm split the road in front of him. A deep, endless void stretched below, so black it seemed to swallow all light.
The gap widened, crumbling the path to dust.
His parents stopped walking. His mother turned, smiling sadly now, her hand still outstretched. His father looked back as well, his face lined with something more than just sorrow. Acceptance. Regret.
"You have to keep moving forward," his father said, his voice somehow carrying through the thickening wind.
Ren tried to step forward—but the ground broke apart beneath his foot. He flailed, barely catching himself, teetering on the crumbling edge.
Terror gripped him.
"No! Don't leave!" he cried, reaching out, desperate. His fingers brushed nothing but empty air.
The sky fully darkened, swallowing the last traces of sunlight. The air grew frigid, the flowers turning black and brittle as they collapsed into ash. His parents' forms blurred further, dissolving into the dark like mist caught in a storm.
"Please… please don't go..."
The path gave way completely, and Ren fell.
Down, down into the abyss, the cold wind screaming in his ears, the world shrinking into a single point of distant light above him.
In the suffocating dark, a single thought cut through everything else:
"I couldn't save them."
He curled into himself as he fell, the guilt and grief tearing through him anew. Memories crashed down like waves: the empty house, the funeral he barely remembered, the years of loneliness that followed.
He had tried so hard to move on.
He had pretended for so long that he was fine.
But deep down—he had never stopped blaming himself.
The darkness thickened, pressing against him, smothering him.
It's your fault.
You were too weak.
You couldn't protect them.
The voices inside him grew louder, colder, crueler.
Then—
A hand broke through the void.
Warm fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist, halting his endless fall.
Ren's eyes snapped open in the darkness.
There she was.
A girl, standing above him at the edge of the abyss, gripping his arm tightly enough that it hurt. He couldn't see her face clearly—only the outline of her small frame against the gloom. But the heat of her touch seared through the cold, anchoring him.
Not pulling him down. Not dragging him back.
Holding him steady.
He stared, wide-eyed, at their joined hands. His hand was trembling violently, but hers never wavered.
For a moment, nothing else existed. Not the past. Not the guilt. Not the fall.
Just that connection.
Slowly, Ren gritted his teeth. His other hand reached up, grasping hers tightly in return.
The darkness didn't vanish—but it stopped crushing him.
It recoiled, just a little, pushed back by something deep inside him.
A flicker of stubborn light.
A whisper in his blood that refused to surrender.
The girl's grip tightened for a heartbeat longer—then, as gently as it had come, the dream began to unravel.
Faintly, from somewhere far above, he heard a voice calling his name.
Soft. Familiar.
Pulling him home.