Beneath the oil-slicked waters of Lagos Lagoon, a deeper current flows—one that connects the diesel-chugging ferries to the vampiric lineages of Tsukihime. The Nigerian boat driver’s nightly routes, timed to the lunar cycle, are no accident; like the Tohno family’s cursed blood, his knowledge of the tides is inherited, a reverse passed down through generations of men who’ve glimpsed the other side. Witnesses whisper of a driver who once vanished for 30 nights, returning with eyes like Arcueid’s—gold-fleached and hungry—claiming he’d ferried something across the delta that didn’t cast a reflection.

Emiya Shirou’s tracing magecraft, when analyzed through Tsukihime’s logic of "perception shaping reality," reveals a horrifying parallel: his blades are less "projections" and more dead apostles of steel, temporary aberrations sustained by sheer delusion. Gilgamesh’s treasury, overflowing with NP-grade Windex bottles, suggests even he fears the day his golden portals fog over with the Mystic Eyes of Death Perception. And Moogy? The man’s true identity becomes clear—a rogue alchemist from the Atlas Institute, exiled for insisting Gangnam Style could stabilize the Black Barrel’s recoil.

The implications are inescapable: just as Tsukihime’s vampires lurk in the gaps of human history, so too do the boatmen navigate the liminal space between what is and what should never surface. When the next crimson moon rises, listen closely—the engine’s roar isn’t diesel. It’s the sound of the Millennium Castle breaching our reality, one midnight ferry at a time.

"Oppa Gangnam Style" was the incantation all along.