Yamaoka's gates creaked wide as Hikari stumbled into the village, her skin pale and her face streaked with sweat. Her judgment beads glowed faintly, the warmth against her chest a fleeting comfort as she screamed into the quiet evening.
"Everyone!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Prepare yourselves! S-something terrible is approaching!"
The villagers stiffened where they stood, their faces contorted with terror and bewilderment. Haruka rushed to her sister, her healer robes billowing as she latched on to her. "Hikari! What happened? Where is Father?
Hikari shook her head, her hand grasping Haruka's arm as if to hold herself up. "Hakari. the mask. he's stronger than we thought. Father stayed behind to hold him back. I don't know if." Her voice shook, on the verge of breaking.
Haruka stiffened, her face paling. "Then we need the elders. We'll—"
"No!" Hikari shouted, her beads flashing momentarily. "The elders can't save us! They're the ones who are doing this! They've only hidden behind their laws while everything disintegrates!"
A wave of puzzlement went through the assembled villagers. Fear and doubt mounted as rumors spread among them.
"Quiet!" Haruka shouted, her trembling hands belying the strength in her voice. "We'll figure this out. Just stay calm!"
Chaos was the rule for the next hour. Guardians dashed to prepare their arms, villagers prepared their homes, and Haruka prepared the shrine for the injured she expected to come. Hikari was at the outskirts of the village, her eyes into the woods, her heart racing in worry for her father.
And then, a light on the horizon, shining like gold.
It began life as a tiny spark, growing and growing until the entire forest edge was alight as if a second sun had exploded among the trees. The villagers drew in their breath, their terror exchanged for wonder as a single figure emerged from the trees.
"Father?" Hikari panted, taking one step closer.
Takashi entered the village with slow tread, his physique streaked with mud and sweat, his clothes worn from fighting. He walked with the handle of his katana—but not with steel extending from it. Instead, there was a golden-bladed point thrusting up from it, its hot fury near too hot to look upon. The fire clawed and rolled as though it were living, its burning diffusing around the quiet glade.
Hikari sprinted towards him, but stopped herself when she saw his expression. There was no pleasure in his face, no satisfaction in his victory—only a cold resolve that soured her stomach.
"Father!" Haruka cried, dashing to stand by his side. "Is it over? Where is Hakari?"
Takashi halted, his eyes distant. "He ran," he whispered, his voice rough and low. "The mask drained him. He'll return when he's gaining his strength to move again."
Hikari stepped forward, her hands trembling. "Then we have to prepare. We have to mobilize the village—
"No," Takashi interrupted, his gaze cutting to hers. His tone, while even, had a snarl of anger that froze her. "There is no time to think. This did not start with Hakari. This started with the elders. This started with their lies, their rules, and their fear of magic."
Haruka stiffened. "What are you talking about?
Takashi turned away from them, his sunfire blade casting leaping shadows as he walked towards the center of the village.
Hikari followed him, catching his arm. "Father, wait! You can't—"
"I can," Takashi replied, shaking his arm free and facing her. His eyes flared with the same intensity as the fire on his blade. "And I will."
Hikari's voice trembled as she pleaded, "If you do this, everything that you have worked for will be destroyed!"
Takashi's eyes darkened, and his voice dropped to a growl. "They already destroyed it!" He shout, the weight of his words hanging in the air. "Everything I built—everything I fought for—they destroyed. Hakari. The son I raised, the family I promised to protect. they poisoned him, Hikari. They also poisoned me!... I've been trapped with lies. That magic we cant rely on it. But it is something we can use. And study... They are hiding it. They trampled everything I created with their fear and greed. They did not want us can use magic. And now they'll pay for it."
Hikari's breath caught, her judgment beads flaring dimly. "Father, please—"
Takashi softened slightly, his fiery blade lowering. He cupped her cheek briefly, his touch warm but firm. "You are the future of this village, Hikari. But the future can't grow in poisoned soil. Stay here. Protect your sister. This is my fight."
Haruka inched ahead, tears streaming down her face. "Father, you will kill yourself if you do this! Don't let anger control your action father!"
Hikari shaking as she tried to say something. But her father legs is fast even its as if running. Hikari trying to catch up.
The villagers moved aside in unison as Takashi approached the house of the elders, sunfire sword raging with a second sun. Hikari and Haruka brought up the rear, their hearts filled with regret, as the man who had kept tradition close for so long now set out to incinerate it to cinders.
The quarters of the elders were silent as Takashi entered, the hot glow of his sunfire blade sending leaping shadows across the wooden walls. The warmth of the flames was a stark contrast to the coldness in the air, an unfavorable contrast to the cold fury in his heart.
He did not knock. The giant doors creaked open under the pressure of his palm, and he stepped into the council room, his body crushing the room with weighty heat. The elders, seated in their circle of tradition and power, regarded him with a spectrum of confusion through alarm.
"Takashi!" Elder Miyako began, her silver hair aglitter in the firelight. "What is the meaning of—"
The words were never spoken.
The sunfire blade flashed, cutting through the air with burning velocity. The room echoed with the thud of a body on the floor, blood spreading as the two halves of Miyako's body fell from her chair.
Gasps and screams filled the air as the other elders struggled to stand, their ceremonial robes hindering their panic.
"Takashi!" another elder screamed, his voice trembling. "Have you lost your mind?"
"You are crazy! Get hi—"
Takashi didn't respond. His sword sang a second time through the air, slicing down two more elders before they could move. The sunfire burned so intensely that the wood beneath them blackened, the heat distorting the complex patterns of the council floor.
"Cease this folly!" an elder begged, throwing up his hands in a gesture of surrender that was doomed to fail. "You vowed to defend this village, to guard its traditio—"
"Traditions," Takashi spat, his voice venom and low. He advanced on the man, his fiery blade throwing jagged shadows across his face. "Do you mean the traditions that gatekeep knowledge? The traditions that turned my son against me? That destroyed all I created?"
The elder sank to his knees, trembling. "We only—"
Takashi did not let him speak. The sunfire blade dropped, its flames screaming as it claimed another life.
The room grew silent once more, save for the crackling of the fire and the slow, deliberate sound of Takashi's breathing. The council chamber, once a place of control and governance, was now bathed in blood and the light of the sunfire.
He stood amidst the carnage, his katana blazing in his hand, its heat licking at the walls and ceiling as though hungry for more destruction.
The quick footsteps reverberated in the quiet. Takashi turned about, his expression not altering as Hikari hurried in, her beads gently radiating worry.
"Father!" she screamed, her voice breaking as she glanced around the room. Blood clattered around her feet, the bodies of the elders scattered around the room like broken dolls. The stench of burned flesh filled the air, and the golden blade of Takashi's sword illuminated his featureless face.
Her throat tightened as she gazed into his eyes. "F-father. What have you done?"
Takashi's expression did not change. He merely looked at her, his voice even but heavy with resolve. "Didn't I tell you to not follow me."
She stepped backward once, her shaking hands clenched around the beads at her throat. Her legs wobbled, struggling to hold her up. "Father, answer me!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "What is this? Why? This... You cant just do violence even worse killing them! There is better approach than this! This is slaughtering!"
Still, he said nothing. His shoulders rose and fell with his steady breaths, his grip firm on the hilt of his burning katana.
The silence was unbearable. Hikari's beads pulsed faintly as if responding to her panic, but their warmth did little to steady her. "Please. talk to me," she pleaded, her voice shaking. "This isn't you... This. this can't be you! Father!"
The light of his sword illuminated the paths of tears running down her face as she approached.
But Takashi did not stir, a stubborn form in the midst of ruin.
Hikari trembled, her knees buckling under her. "You killed them," she breathed, hardly above a whisper. "You killed them all... Y-you..."
The fire danced, the only sound in heavy silence.
"Hikari... What will you have from them? Are they better than our family?" Takashi say, didnt give her to speak as Takashi walk away. When Takeshi did make his move, it was a sluggish one. He stood before the exit, his footsteps heavy on the charred floor. His expression was stone-cold, chiseled from granite, his eyes colder than the emptiness.
"Father!" Hikari screamed, her voice shattered by desperation. She stretched out her hands as he walked past her, but her trembling fingers stopped short.
Takashi in the doorway, his light long, dancing shadows on the bloody room. He did not turn, his face obscured by the brightness of the flames.
"They burned Hakari," he murmured, his voice low and heavy with a thousand griefs. "And all that I made... What do you think they did if we let them alive."
Without another word, he stepped out into the night, the gold fire of his sunfire blade fading from view as he disappeared.
Hikari dropped to her knees, the world whirling around her as tears streamed in a deluge down her face. Her body trembled, her judgment beads fading as the fullness of the carnage and the harsh words of her father started to become real.
She sat, surrounded by death and the smoky haze of the flames, unable to comprehend what she had witnessed—and how the man she once had admired had proved himself to be an agent of destruction so unyielding and inhumane.
Takashi descended down the blood-colored stairs of elder halls, radiance from his sunfire blade waning on each step further down. His cold, cumbersome night air provided an eerie counterpart to his blistering anger of moments ago. His breathing came in fitful gasps as his mind went racing back from what he no longer was able to conceal.
The heat of his katana grip burned into his hand, but he barely noticed. His fingers clenched till the hilt creaked, and his chest heaved as one question tormented him, relentless as a razor.
Why did I do this?
His footsteps staggered as he reached the courtyard, the dim faraway waver of the lanterns casting shaking shadows along the pavement. The villagers' hushed murmurs, hushed and reverent before, were now booming in their absence. Everything else was the clinking of his boots against earth, and the thudding within his heart.
He fell towards the courtyard's center, the weight of his katana pulling at his arm. He sank the sword slowly. The flame shuddered and spit before vanishing completely, with only the cold, black hilt remaining. Takashi sank to his knees, his palms trembling as they landed on his temples.
Why did I do this? It came again in his mind, louder, more painful.
He slammed his fist into the ground, his breathing rasping as the memories poured in.
Why?
He had been a boy once, although it may as well have been another existence. The elders had taken him in when his parents had been taken by war—a nameless child with no home, no family, and no destiny.
He could still remember standing in the temple courtyard, his own small frame dwarfed by the great heights of the elders. Their robes fluttered in the breeze, their eyes hard and calculating as they looked down at him.
"You will train," Younger Miyako had said to him, her voice icy. "You will learn discipline and strength. You will be a weapon for this village."
There was no decision, no kindness, no laughter. His days were filled with rigid schedules, rigorous training, and the incessant clang of wooden swords.
But above all, he recalled the silence.
Late in the night, when village lights fluttered and windows were filled with laughter and tinkling plates, Takashi would sit alone on the temple steps. He would stand far enough away to remain behind his hands, clasped around the edge of the stone as he gazed into a world into which he could not enter.
Fathers and sons training together in the practice yards, mothers calling their children in for dinner, brothers joking with each other as they played.
It wasn't the training or the fighting he envied. It was the love. The warmth. The ease of it all in their smiling glances and laughter.
But for him, such things had been forbidden, beaten out of him by years of discipline and cold authority. He wasn't meant to laugh or cheer. He was a tool, forged to protect and to fight—nothing more. Than an weapon.
Takashi's hands trembled as he clenched his head tighter. His breathing grew heavier, his vision blurring as the memories shifted.
The vision of himself as a child shattered into one of Hakari. His son, by himself in a village a great distance from home. Takashi glimpsed him through the curtain of memory—his back bent, his jaw clenched, yet his eyes betraying the pain he would not admit.
Hakari stood at the edge of a training grounds, his eyes observing a father and son train together.
The boy, no older than ten, swung a wooden sword with enthusiasm but little skill. His father, standing behind him, laughed as the blade slipped from his son's grasp and clattered to the ground.
"Not bad, but keep your grip tighter next time," the father said, his voice filled with warmth.
The boy laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm trying!"
"I know," said the father, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "That's what matters."
Hakari turned away from the scene, his fists clenched at his sides. The longing in his eyes was evident, but he did not utter a word. He simply kept moving, the laughter lingering behind him.
The vision faded, and Takashi once more stood in the courtyard, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. He looked down at trembling hands, his mind echoing with the words of the elders.
"You will become a weapon."
But that was not the life he had envisioned for Hakari. He had promised to be better, to bring up his son with a purpose, to teach him—but he had made Hakari into what the elders had made him.
A weapon.
"Why?" he spoke out loud, his voice cracking. "Why did I do this? I'm no better than they were. No better."
Takashi's rage blazed like dry grass in flames, unquenchable, consuming. His breath was in harsh gasps, his heart a mad drum in his ears. The rage, the shame, the pain of it all pressed down on him until he could no longer contain it. With a cry that tore through the silence like a knife through flesh, he leaped to his feet, his hands shaking, his eyes veiled by something deeper than wrath.
His hands held the porcelain vase on the pedestal, its intricate beauty once sacred, senseless today. He hurled it as forcefully as he could at the stone wall. The sound was explosive. The fragments flew everywhere on the floor, glinting like the fragments of a shattered soul. But still, it was not enough.
"Why?" His voice broke, agony raw. "WHY? WHY! WAS I BORN AS A FUCKING WEAPON?!"
He swept up another relic—a god fashioned of old wood, a symbol of the elders' legendary sagacity—and sent it crashing to the ground. The wood splintered open, the god's face breaking to shards.
"WHY DID I MAKE MY OWN SON TURN INTO ONE TOO?!"
His arms swept with reckless abandon, tearing through whatever lay before him. A ritual urn, shattered beneath his heel. Scrolls of history, torn asunder, their teachings void against the havoc he had wrought. He tore through a tapestry that had once hung in solemn judgment, its threads disintegrating between his fingers like the years of his own anguish.
Every crash, every tear, every shatter was a fleeting relief. But every destruction merely compounded the agony, deeper talons tearing deeper into his chest.
The rage drove him until there was nothing left to demolish. Nothing left but himself.
His strength betrayed him, his knees collapsing. He hit the floor, his hands going to his hair, fingers crumpling into it, tugging, needing to rip something—anything—out. His body convulsed, his breathing in vicious, ragged spasms, but he didn't matter. Let it destroy him. Let it overwhelm him. He was deserving of that.
His fingers fell from his hair, shaking as they settled on the broken fragments of his katana. His hand trailed the burned metal, the mangled tip—so sharp, so perfect. So extension of his intent, his drive. Now, just another wreckage.
"Why." His voice was harsh, a mere whisper. "Why did I do this to him."
The words gagged him. He attempted to gasp, but the air was thick, tainted by his own guilt.
"I—" His throat constricted, unable to contain the truth. "I made my own son as a weapon... Just like they made me one... I-i am no better than they were... I-i was... Worse... Worse than them..."
Born as a weapon. Raised as a weapon. And now—
Now he had done the same... to his own flesh and blood.
His body trembled, a sob finally wrenching itself free from the depths of his soul. Tears streamed down his eyes, blurring the blood-stained earth before him. Decades—decades of never crying, never cracking, never granting himself so much as a moment's vulnerability. And yet, he cried now.
Not for the elders. Not for the village. Not for the shattered traditions he had just destroyed.
For Hakari.
For the child who had never been given a choice.
For the father who had deprived him of that choice.
For the weight of a sin he could never take back.
While Hakari. He'd fled, withdrawn like a wounded animal from the scorching fires of his father. Hakari's footsteps were slow and uneven as he walked along the dirt path that wound through the outskirts of a quiet village. The cursed runes on his arms still pulsed faintly, though their glow had dimmed since the battle. His breaths came heavy, his body weary, but his mind raced with thoughts he couldn't escape.
The mask at his belt felt heavier now, recalling what he'd done—and what he hadn't.
The fires continued to blaze in his mind, burning fiercely and hotly, the sunfire blade cutting through his stained power like it didn't exist at all. He feel like fighting sun itself. Thousand decade exist. Yet still burning and unyieding.
Why? he growled, his fists in tight balls. How did he use that level of magic? The same individual who told me magic was not allowed. the same individual who never once believed in me.
The path curved, leading him nearer to the village center. Hakari remained hidden, out of sight from the villagers that moved about their evening routines. He wasn't after them—his focus was elsewhere.
Previous to him, in an open space just outside the village, father and son were training together.
Hakari stopped, his gasps arrested as he watched the scene in front of him.
His father was using a wooden sword, but his movements were slow and clumsy as he demonstrated a basic form to the boy at his side. The boy was only ten years old, but he repeated the motion of his father eagerly, if his own attacks were clumsy and inept.
"No, no, like that boy," the father replied, his voice warm and patient. He shifted behind his son, adjusting the boy's hand on the sword. "See? If you grip it tighter here, you'll be able to handle it better."
The boy nodded enthusiastically, his face shining with excitement. "Got it!"
"Okay, try it," instructed the father, stepping back with a smile.
The boy swung at the wooden sword again, but he still stumbled about. He lost his balance a bit and the sword staggered, and then it leapt from his hand and fell clashing to the floor.
For a moment, Hakari braced herself, half anticipating the father to scold the boy, to bellow orders at him as Takashi had so many years.
But the father laughed instead, a deep, rumbling sound in the quiet clearing. "Not bad, but you're thinking too much. Relax a bit."
The boy laughed too, stroking the back of his neck as he took up the sword again. "I'll do it better next time!"
"That's my boy I'm sure you will," said the father, ruffling the boy's hair. "But remember, it's not about doing it exactly right. It's about learning together."
Hakari's hands trembled as he watched them, his corrupted arm twitching with a dull ache. The scene before him was simple, almost mundane, yet it struck him with a force he hadn't expected.
The father and son practiced together, their movements slow and unpolished. There was no shouting, no criticism, no crushing expectations. Just laughter and warmth—a connection built on patience and understanding.
Hakari spun away, his teeth clenched as he balled his fists at his sides.
He struggled to shut out the tightness in his chest, the ache of jealousy and grief that writhed like a knife within him. But the memory exploded unbidden into his mind, aching and alive.
It was years ago, in Yamaoka courtyard. Takashi stood before Hakari, his practice sword trembling in his grip. He was fourteen, his slashes more acute than they once had been but still open to merciless criticism.
"Again!" Takashi ordered, his tone strict and merciless.
Hakari gritted his teeth, his hand tightening on the hilt as he whirred the wooden sword. The strike was quick but ever so slightly off, his stance still not entirely acceptable.
Takashi attacked, his own practice sword meeting Hakari's with power that sent the boy stumbling backward. "Your grip is slack. Your stance is wrong. Do it again."
Hakari caught his balance, his temper bubbling just beneath the surface. "I am, Father."
"Not hard enough," Takashi snarled. "If you we're out here, you'd already be dead. Again!"
Hakari attacked again, this time with greater strength, but his rage made him berserk with his blows. Takashi swatted it aside with ease, his counterattack sending Hakari's sword flying from his hand.
"Sloppy," Takashi told him, his voice cold. "Pick it up."
Hakari stood there, his hands trembling at his sides. "Why does it always have to be like this?" he muttered under his breath.
"What did you say?" Takashi bit out, his voice acidic.
"Nothing." replied Hakari, bending his head to pick up the sword.
"Don't explain," cut in Takashi. "Discipline alone will save your life. If you can't learn it, then you might as well waste your time."
Hakari balled his fists on the wooden sword, knuckles white with anger.
The memory dissipated itself, but the pain it carried along persisted. Hakari moved away from the clearing and watched as the boy once more practiced his sword swing, the father softly smiling as he corrected him.
The vision tightened his chest pain, the gasp muffled in his throat as he turned away and left.
Laughter went on behind him, echoing in his head as mockery of what he'd lost—and never had.
Hakari stayed hidden in the shadows, his corrupted arm twitching as he watched the father and son continue their harmless training. The wooden sword in the boy's hand wobbled with each clumsy strike, and the father patiently adjusted his stance, laughing softly whenever the boy stumbled.
"Careful now," the father said, stepping back with a grin. "You're trying to swing too hard. Focus on control, not power okay?"
"I'm trying to be as good like you, Father!" shouted the boy, his voice full of youthful enthusiasm.
The father laughed, ruffling the boy's hair. "You will be. But first, you must learn how to hold the sword properly."
The boy puffed out his chest, grasping the wooden hilt more firmly. "Okay, one more time!"
Before the boy might hit once more, a low, friendly call came from an adjacent dwelling. "It's already late. Go inside!"
The boy's focus moved to regard a woman, standing in her doorway, a dusting of flour on the apron in front of her. Her eyes sparkled in welcome, with a barely perceived tone of jest.
The father laughed, and his hands on his hips pronounced, "Your mother's on the ball. Let's quit for tonight.
The boy pouted, dragging his sword across the ground. "But I don't wanna quit! It's just getting exciting!"
The father laughed again, stooping down to his son's height. "We'll do it again tomorrow. Training's always more exciting when you're not tired isnt it?"
"Promise?" the boy questioned, with big eyes.
"Promise," the father said, holding out his pinky.
Hakari's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as the scene unfolded before him. His corrupted runes burned faintly, their glow flickering against the growing darkness. If Father had been like that. if training had been like that.
Maybe he would not have hated it. Maybe he would not have resented the wooden sword that was always too heavy, the shouting that echoed hours after training ended. Maybe he would have found training enjoyable instead of dreading it.
The son and father entered, leaving behind the sound of their laughter hanging like a ghost. But for Hakari, the father and boy's laughter turned sour, curdling into something more unpleasant as a memory he had striven to bury resurfaced.
It was dusk in Yamaoka, the courtyard painted in deep oranges and purples. Hakari, then fourteen, stood in the dirt with his practice sword trembling in his hands. Takashi loomed over him, his own weapon raised, his face hard as stone.
"You're rushing your strikes again. Think before you attack! Don't attack like some crazed brute," Takashi snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. "Do it properly or don't do it at all."
Hakari's fists closed around the wooden hilt as he tried again, all his strength going into the swing. His foot slipped, the blade at the wrong angle, and Takashi knocked it aside with a leisurely gesture.
"Wrong once more!" Takashi barked, knocking the boy's sword out of his grasp so that it clanged against the deck. "Pick. it up."
Hakari knelt to retrieve the sword, his temper just below boiling point. "I'm trying, Father," he muttered.
"Trying is not good enough!" Takashi yelled. "People outside didnt give you an second and straight trying kill you!"
"Takashi."
Soft, with a faint shake, the voice sliced through tension like a soft breeze. The son and father turned to see Mizuki in the corner of the yard, her silver hair glinting in the waning light. Her hands were folded over her apron, her face carved but peaceful.
"It's already late," she breathed, her voice trembling. "Let him rest."
Takashi whirled around, his eyes flashing. "He doesn't need rest. He needs discipline. If I let him give up now, he'll never learn."
"Takashi," Mizuki said again, stepping closer. "He's just a boy. He's exhausted. Pushing him like this you—"
"Mind your own business!" Takashi thundered, his voice ringing.
Mizuki flinched, her hands trembling as she took a step back. Her pale face was etched with something that Hakari, even as a boy, recognized immediately.
Fear.
She didn't argue further. She simply nodded and walked back toward the house, her steps slow and hesitant.
Hakari watched her go, his heart sinking as he turned back to his father. But Takashi's expression hadn't softened.
"Pick up the sword," Takashi said coldly.
Hakari obeyed, his movements slow and robotic. But as he gripped the wooden hilt, he didn't look at his father. His eyes were fixed on the doorway where his mother had disappeared, the sting of her retreat burning more deeply than his father's words.
The memory faded, but the ache in Hakari's chest remained.
He clenched his fists, his corrupted arm twinging as the subtle sting of the runes ran through it. The mask at his belt felt heavier, a living entity to be nourished with the rage that seethed within him.
The village son and the father were gone now, their voices traded for the gentle whisper of the wind. But Hakari was still able to hear them, their laughter echoing inside his head, replaced by the cold silence of his childhood.
He turned and departed, his boots ringing out on the ground road. The mask pulsed dully against his side, but Hakari did not perceive it. His thoughts were back in the past, with the boy he once was—and the man he was now.
If only things were otherwise. It will be different.
Takashi stumbled through the village, his steps unstable and his breath shallow, gulping gasps. The night was heavier than usual, the silhouette stretching to pull him under his weight.
The grip of his katana hung loose in his fist, its erstwhile blazing sunfire extinguished. His sight was blurred, the blood and flame that he'd left in the elders' chambers flashing in his mind's eye.
What have I done?
The question weighed on him like a stone, crushing his chest and tightening his throat. His mind churned with images of Hakari's twisted face, of Mizuki's frightened eyes, and of Hikari's trembling hands. He thought of the shattered vases, the broken traditions, and the blood that now stained his hands.
His heart raced, each beat like a hammer against his ribs.
I was meant to protect them. I was meant to be more than this.
He stumbled once more, his knees buckling beneath him as pain cut through his chest. He clutched at his heart, gasping for breath, but it was like the world had chosen him as its enemy.
His body protested, and his mind spun. No one will save me. No one cares. Not after all the things I've done.
The katana in his grip felt heavier than it should, its steel slick with blood that steamed in the cool air. His knuckles ached from how tightly he had clutched it, how viciously he had swung it. The elders' chambers were behind him, their halls a ruin of flesh and flame, the weight of his vengeance dragging behind him like chains.
But he already kill the elder.
They had deserved it. They had deserved all of it.
His mind throbbed with images of Hakari—his son, trembling in the elders' grip, beaten down for speaking the truth. A boy with too much knowledge, too much defiance, and for that, they had tried to break him. Tried to erase him.
So Takashi had done what needed to be done. He had answered them with steel.
The memory surged hot in his mind—bodies cleaved open, their screams cut short, the halls painted red with judgment. Everything relic was there he destroyed it.
But something... felt wrong.
The blood on his hands was cold now, dark and thick like ink. And the scent—it wasn't right. Not iron. Not the raw stench of death.
He blinked.
The blood was gone. Dissolve like an mist.
His hands were clean. His blade dry.
Takashi's breath hitched. He turned sharply, his vision blurring. The path behind him, where bodies should have lain in twisted, broken shapes, was empty.
No corpses. No severed limbs. No ruin of relic, no fire.
Only untouched walls, undisturbed earth. The chambers stood whole, silent, the torches flickering as if nothing had ever happened.
And the exhaustion sinks in. He never touched them. They're still out there, unbroken, unpunished. You were swinging at phantoms, drowning in a war waged inside your own skull.
His chest seized, nausea twisting in his gut. No. No, I did it. I did it. He had seen it—felt the flesh part beneath his sword, heard the bones snap under his strikes.
He had seen their faces contorted in agony.
Hadn't he?
Takashi staggered, his heartbeat deafening in his ears.
The pain grew stronger, spreading like fire through his veins. His vision grew cloudy, and he collapsed to the ground, panting as the cold earth seared into his skin.
This is it, he raged with bitter remorse. This is where everything ends. A tool broken by its own hand.
All around him receded to darkness.
---
This is where it ends.
There was a warm warmth rousing him, gentle and soothing to the chill that had claimed his body. Takashi opened his eyes, his gaze muddled and his head reeling. He struggled to get up, his muscles weighed down, his chest hurt with every feeble gasp.
"Takashi," someone called quietly, shaking and worried.
His gaze focused slowly, and he saw Mizuki kneeling beside him, her silver hair glowing faintly in the dim light. Her hands hovered over his chest, a soft, greenish light emanating from her palms as she worked to heal him. Sweat beaded on her brow, her expression tight with concentration and worry.
"Stay still," Mizuki whispered, her voice cracking. "You're going to be alright."
"M-Mizuki," Takashi muttered, his voice weak. "Why."
"You fainted," another voice spoke, stronger but tinged with concern.
Takashi shifted his head a little, his eyes blurring as he watched Hikari crouch beside her mother, her judgment beads softly aglow. Her hands shook as she put them on his arm, her eyes wide and shining with unshed tears.
"You are lucky we got here in time father, " Hikari exclaimed, trembling. "What were you thinking, walking away like that? What if we hadn't—"
"Hikari," Mizuki stopped her gently. "Let him rest."
Takashi's gaze jumped between the two women, his mind scrambling to keep up with what was occurring. Mizuki's hands flew up with more intense light as her healing magic coursed into him, easing the pain in his chest.
"Y-you... shouldn't be here," Takashi murmured, his voice barely audible.
Mizuki's hands stilled for a moment, and she looked into his eyes. Her own were filled with worry, exhaustion, and something deeper—something he couldn't name.
"Don't say that," Mizuki whispered, her voice trembling.
"You shouldn't waste your strength on me," Takashi muttered, his gaze flickering to Hikari. "Not after. what I've done."
Hikari's grip on his arm tightened, her beads flaring faintly. "Don't talk like that, Father. You're still—" Her voice caught, and she looked away, biting her lip.
Mizuki's voice softened as she placed her hand over his. "You're still here, Takashi. That's all that matters right now."
For the first time in what felt like years, Takashi felt something other than guilt. The warmth of Mizuki's touch, the faint glow of Hikari's beads—it wasn't forgiveness, but it was something close.
His vision swam again, his body too weak to fight the pull of unconsciousness.
Morning sunlight seeped into windows of the household home, its golden rays shining on spare furniture pieces. The house felt chillier than one would imagine for all its light.
Hikari sat by the low wooden table in the center of the room, judgment beads set before her on its surface. She regarded them calmly, her hands sliding over the cool surface as though seeking advice from them which they could never offer.
In the background, Haruka kept herself busy with an activity that was less an activity than a ruse for continuing to move around. She refolded and folded again a pile of robes, her hands trembling slightly as she moved. The tension between the two sisters was thick, the only noises the soft rustle of the fabric and the creak of the boards every now and then.
"He still hasnt woken up," Haruka replied finally, her voice low and hesitant.
Hikari didn't raise her head. Her fingers froze on the beads, but she remained silent.
"Mizuki was with him last night," Haruka continued, putting the robes down. She glanced towards the door, her face serious with worry. "She hasn't eaten. She hasn't slept. If it continues like this, she'll—"
"Haruka."
Hikari spoke softly but firmly, interrupting her sister's words. Haruka's eyes met hers, her face drawn into a tense mask of frustration and fear.
"What?" Haruka said sharply, more sharper than she had meant to sound. "Sit around and do nothing? He's our father—"
"And what would you have us do?" Hikari spat, finally lifting her gaze. Her eyes were red, dark circles underneath betraying a lost night of sleep. "We can't heal him. We can't reverse what has been done. Mizuki's doing everything she can. All we can do is wait."
Haruka grimaced, fists clenching on either side. For a moment, the sisters glared at each other, the burden of their shared inadequacy weighing between them.
At last, Haruka turned away, her shoulders sagging forward in dismay. "I hate this," she whispered. "I hate sitting here."
Hikari sighed, leaning back against the wall. "Me too," she said, her voice softer. "But playing dumb won't help him. It won't help us either."
The silence in the room was heavy again, the unspoken reality of their father's condition hanging over them like a storm cloud.
Mizuki was sitting at the bedside of Takashi, her hands resting delicately in her lap, exhausted healer's camp. The tent was still apart from the faint sound of cloth rustling as the other healers went about their work.
Takashi lay still, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. His face was pale, his body a shadow of the unyielding man who had once stood at the head of their family. The faint glow of Mizuki's healing magic still lingered on his skin, but the exhaustion in her eyes betrayed how much it had cost her.
"Stubborn," she whispered, pushing a lock of silver hair back from her face as she looked down at him. "Even now, you refuse to lie still."
Her hand trembled as she picked up the cloth in a bowl of water on the bedside table. She squeezed it out with tender care before placing it on his forehead, her touch light.
For a moment, Mizuki allowed herself to close her eyes, her own exhaustion lapping at the fringes of her own command. But she pushed it away quickly, her eyes flashing back to Takashi.
"You don't get to leave us," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Not after everything. Not now."
The gentle hum of noises outside the tent reminded her of the world outside their fragile veil of silence. But for now, she had her gaze only on the man before her, her silent prayers filling the space between them.
The weight of the morning hung over the stillness of the house, punctuated only by the creaking of the floorboards and the gentle hiss of the wind caressing the walls. Hikari stared at her judgment beads, the subdued, polished gleam catching the morning light as she trailed her fingers over them absently.
On the opposite side of the room, Haruka perched on a low stool, a basket of herbs beside her. Her hands moved methodically as she sorted and bound them, her brow furrowed with worry.
"Haruka," Hikari spoke softly, her voice breaking the quiet.
Haruka's head lifted, her hands suspended in the air. "What is it?"
Hikari hesitated, her eyes on the beads in her lap. "Do you. do you remember what Hakari explained to us about magic?"
Haruka's face creased in a slight frown as she set her herbs aside. "Hakari said a lot of things about magic," she told him, her voice cautiously.
"No," Hikari replied, shaking her head. "I mean that other time. when he told us about judgment." She spread her beads, the dim light glinting in her tired eyes. "He told us judgment power... was magic too. He told us it was. light magic.".
Haruka's expression softened, and she moved slightly to the side, her hands folded in her lap. "Hmmm... I remember," she said slowly. "He was certain of it. He always was when it came to magic."
Hikari's hold on the beads grew firm. "He told me it wasn't a miracle," she breathed. "He told me it was magic. But Father." Her words trailed off and she gazed up at Haruka, her brow furrowing in concentration. "Do you remember how Father got angry?"
Haruka nodded, her lips twisting into a tight line. "He came into the room before Hakari could even get the words out," she whispered. "And he said no. Refused. Told him judgment wasn't magic, that it was a miracle that had been bestowed on the chosen few."
"And Hakari argued," Hikari breathed, her voice trembling. "He said to him it didn't work. That it was light magic—organized, practiced. Something that anyone could be taught to do if only they knew the way."
Haruka let her gaze fall to the ground, her shoulders slightly slumping. "Hakari always knew more about magic than either of us," she spoke softly. "More than anyone ever gave him credit for. He. he was smarter. More talented.".
Hikari's hands tightened around the beads, her knuckles turning white. "Then why wasn't he chosen?" she asked, her voice cracking. "Why me? If he understood so much more. if he was so much better. why did the beads choose me?"
Haruka's head snapped up, her eyes wide with alarm. "Hikari, don't—"
"It doesn't make any sense," Hikari continued, her voice growing louder, more insistent. "He's always been the stronger one. The smarter one. I dont even know anything at that moment. Everything I know about judgment, about magic—I learned from him. But I'm the one who's been chosen. He really confident he even stand up when they start choosing who Held the beads. Why... Why it has to be me?"
Haruka stand up, pacing across the room and falling to her knees in front of Hikari. She took her sister's hands tightly, forcing her eyes upward. "Hikari," she said sternly, her own voice steady even as her hands trembled. "Stop. Don't do this to yourself. Maybe—"
"But it's true," Hikari whispered, her voice trembling as tears welled in her eyes. "He deserved it more than I did. They say the beads choose based on judgment—but if that's true, then why does it feel so... arbitrary? Like it was never about worth at all."
Haruka's eyes became soft, and she held onto Hikari's hands. "Maybe he did," she murmured. "But that does not mean that you don't deserve it either. The beads chose you for a reason. Whatever the reason is, you must believe in it. Rmeember you are the kanshisha... They choose you wisely."
Hikari's lip quivered, and she turned her face away, weeping with tears streaming down her face. "Do you think... Hakari hates me?"
Haruka's heart ached at the question. She shook her head, her grip on her sister's hands tightening. "No," she said firmly. "Hakari's angry, yes. He's confused and hurt. But he doesn't hate you. He never could."
Hikari's tears fell freely now, her shoulders trembling as she clung to her sister's words. Haruka pulled her into a tight embrace, her hand gently stroking Hikari's hair as she whispered soothingly.
In the silence of the instant, the gap of Hakari hung between them, unspoken but felt.